


A Study On Perspective

by LightGreySea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale/Crowley storyline starts in chapter 7, Characters Tagged As They Appear, DRD - Demonic Resources Department, F/F, M/M, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), do not copy to another site, or: Hell goes to therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-01-21 07:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21295490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightGreySea/pseuds/LightGreySea
Summary: After the Failed Apocalypse (and an even more catastrophic Trial), Hell's morale is not at its best.Desperate times call for desperate measures, even if they come in an unexpected form.After all, it's not like some random human girl could actually led demons to a path of self-discovery, isn't it?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub (Good Omens)/Original Female Character(s), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 82





	1. Everything is a red flag if you are in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> As usual:
> 
> \- Guillemets for dialogues and italic for thoughts and emphasis. Hovering on text written in non-English languages will translate it.  
\- Special mention to [THIS](http://three-legged-cow.tumblr.com/post/186592924371/beezle-beezle) lovely fanart on Tumblr for inspiring this whole thing, because the author had to wonder "yes, but what if they had the budget for a HR department?"
> 
> Enjoy!

Artemisia learned very soon to keep her hopes and expectations as low as possible.

For starters, having a very foreign name and surname – excuse me Miss, how do you spell “_Hirondelle_”? - meant explaining personal details of her life to perfect strangers. Only when she’d eventually admit being from Wimereux, northern France, the butcher (and the landlord and the woman at the job agency and the policeman…) would leave her alone, usually with a smug expression and a joke about Azincourt – really? After 604 years?

Sometimes Artemisia wondered how much this weighed on the fact that, despite her shining master’s degree, at the ripe old age of 25 years old she was currently stuck at the customer service’s call center of a bank.  
Now, she really appreciated being payed at the end of the month, but being the emotional punching bag of angry clients with nonsensical issues? Repeating day after day the same trite concepts and slogans? Her bosses’ constant nagging about productivity? Dealing with the surprisingly frequent calls from sexual maniacs during the 15-20 shift? Not so much.  
She really doesn’t blame Lisa Morrow, a colleague from the sales department, for quitting after what she called “a prophetic dream about being eaten by maggots”.

This is why one chilly September morning, while sitting outside a cafe and enjoying a buttery raspberry muffin, Artemisia picked up the newspaper with more interest than usual.  
After a rather funny article about a Londoner who woke up in a pond in Cornwall with no memories of the night before, she found herself blinded by a neon-yellow advert that looked like a five-years old child’s first attempt at graphic design. Really, who picked the font “Papyrus” for a job offer? It was also in the wrong section, as if it just appeared on the page and the other columns had to squeeze to make room for it. Which was impossible, of course.  
Still, it was oddly attractive.

> **Company of vast experience in its field is looking for someone to aid in post- failed Apocalypse renovation who wants to work with ““““human”””” resources. **
> 
> **Call +020 7946 0666. Only serious inquiries!!! **

The lack of a name didn’t bother her, since many companies omitted it in their adverts. Neither did the quotation marks, clearly a mistake of the typography, or the dramatic tone; who was her to judge if they decided to call the 2012 economic crisis an Apocalypse?  
No, it was the vagueness that alerted her: were they looking for a secretary? A consultant? Some kind of administrator? Maybe her CV wouldn’t be appropriate after all.  
But then, the only way to tell was to be brave and call.

Artemisia quickly looked for sources of noise, but the cafe was near Kew Gardens, away from the clamor of the main streets, and the others customers sat inside.  
So she dialed, took a deep breath and called. She waited for interminable moments, moments she spent wondering if the whole thing wasn’t an elaborate joke, but then someone picked up.

«Yeszz?»

_Oh lovely, they sound annoyed already. Nice voice, though._

Artemisia cleared her throat and chose her best pleasant-and-professional tone, the one usually reserved for special clients.

«Good morning, I hope I am not bothering you? I just wanted to inquire about the job offer published on the Daily Star, since I’d love to have more information about the position.»  
She waited for the other person to say something, anything; on the background Artemisia could hear a faint buzzing, maybe an interference in the network? That would explain the awkward pauses.

«Tonight at 17.00, near the entrance of Ravenscourt. I will zen- send two of my...employees.»

Really, a public park? Still, she felt it was too late to pull back. Plus, at this point she was very, very curious.

«Perfect! Thank you for this opportunity, have a nice day.»

«I won’t,» they replied flatly. Then the line went dead.

_How promising._

*** * ***

Normally, Artemisia would notice how lovely the evening is, its pink and indigo sky and the pale crescent moon peeking behind the trees’ trembling fronds.  
However, at the moment she was busy mentally listing all the precautions that she took: all her friends knew about the interview, the position-thing on her phone was active and while she didn't own a teaser (yet) she had hidden a cutter in one of her blazer’s pockets.  
Because in her “let’s say farewell to the call center” enthusiasm, she has ignored so many red flags: the suspicious advert, the weird phone call (what was that buzzing?) and the evening meeting… So. Many.  
Beside, whoever was supposed to come is late. Great.

Then the wind changed; Artemisia sniffed the air, fancying she could smell brimstone. She also swore that someone was walking through the orchard, dry leaves crunching under their steps. She stared into the shadows and yes- there were two figures, both taller than her, advancing.

_Well, moment of truth I guess. _

Artemisia discretely unsheathed the cutter, and then quickly marched towards the strangers.

«Good evening!»

Now that they were closer, she could see that the pair was wearing clothes that, for lack of better words, looked like they have been burned and then dragged into a sewer.

«Oh, there you are. See, Hastur? This one looks braver than the others,» said one of them, a woman with dark auburn hair and a tattered shawl around her neck.  
Her companion, Hastur apparently, a man with wild bleached-blonde hair, looked unimpressed.

«Braver? She looks young and small like most of them,» he replied, taking an unnatural long draw from a cigarette.

«How pessimistic, at least she is not screaming. And really, she is still taller than someone we both know.»

«It doesn’t take much,» admitted Hastur, flicking the cigarette butt in a nearby shrub.

While they were discussing, Artemisia realized that if she wanted to turn and run away this was her last chance. Then, the woman chose that moment to grab her arm, tucking it under hers while smiling innocently; in the low light, her teeth looked almost pointy.

«Shall we go?»

*** * ***

Having a Master’s Degree in “Anthropology and Cultural Psychology” meant that Artemisia has studied a lot of weird things without batting an eyelash.

However, nothing could have prepared her for being literally dragged underground by two entities – because at this point she was pretty sure they weren’t human – that are now escorting her through a long and badly lit corridor. But then, at least she was not being trafficked, right?

«Ugh, we should do something about that leak,» commented the pointy-teeth woman(?) while they passed by what looked like a small lake.

Artemisia internally agreed. The walls looked saturated with water; did the leak dated back to the XIXth Century?

«Don’t look at me,» snapped Hastur. «It was Li- it was his job.»

The other just sighed. By the look of it, Artemisia guessed that this wasn’t the first time they were having this discussion. Also, what was about the half-uttered name?

Eventually they reached the end of the hallway, where a closed door awaited them.  
Rationally, it was a boring door, painted in the same sad and dirty-looking grey that seemed to be the most popular colour around there. However, Artemisia couldn’t stop thinking of Dante’s verses at Hell’s door, how was that? "Per me si va tra la perduta gente"?  
But then, that was literally Hell. Dante had his reasons to be dramatic.

The still-unnamed woman (?) released her arm, quite sore at that point, and nudged her towards the door.

«Any last words?»

«Yes.» No, not really, but now she will have to improvise something because her brain decided to be both impulsive AND awkward. «Nice scales, silver suits you,» she said, nodding at the woman(?) face.

Then Artemisia quickly entered the room without looking back.


	2. A therapist, a spy, or both?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just your standard job interview in Hell.

Later, Artemisia will replay in her head the weirdest job interview she ever had while drinking a strong relaxing herbs infusion with tons of honey and then collapsing on her bed, screaming into the pillow.

Which is a rather understated reaction considering that she just went to Hell. But then, she also made it back home. With a new job. Yay!

*** * * **

Artemisia’s first instinct when meeting someone new is to look at their face.  
This is why she noticed the rashes and boils first, and hoped that they weren’t too much painful. Then the pale eyes and dark, singed hair. Their mouth was a pinched, hard line, which suited the furrowed brows.  
She also finally discovered the source of the mysterious buzzing noise: there were flies, real and very much alive flies, swarming chaotically around their head.

«I concede you this, you are the first one to come thisz far, » said the… person, one of their hand tapping against the metal armrest of their chair.

«I am highly motivated,» she replied. «And curious, I am afraid.»

«Szit, then.»

Well, thanks a lot. Artemisia considered the room before her, completely bare if not for the already occupied chair and the desk in front of it. She could notice a hint of glee in the...interviewer’s eyes at her hesitation. They obviously expected her to stand, or to sit on the floor, which looked like a health hazard.

_Don’t dare, don’t get._

Before she could regret her decision, Artemisia closed the distance and lightly perched on the desk.

«Thank you.»

She heard someone giggling behind her, and then the sound of a door being quickly shut; she dared to peek over her shoulder, but now there was no door at all. Promising.

Artemisia decided to act fast in order to avoid any immediate consequence; with a swift movement she extracted her resume from its folder and slid it across the table. They picked the sheet of paper with two fingers, as if holding a stinky rat by his tail. Artemisia noticed the black nail polish and mentally praised this person for expressing themselves even on the work place. After a quick read, they cast the sheet aside.

«Have you realized where you are?» they finally asked.

«Definitely not on Earth.»

They laughed – well, at least Artemisia guessed so. It sounded more like they were chocking, but one of their mouth’s corner twitched.

«I am Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, and you are in Hell,» they straightened their jacket, showing off the insignia pinned on it and the striking crimson band. «Ah yes, Hastur and Dagon are two Dukes. I am the Prince, obviously.»

_Obviously,_ thought Artemisia while her anthropology-student brain registered the fact that, despite having feminine voices and/or appearances, some demons – yes, demons – used monarchy male titles as a default. But then, gender was insignificant for occult entities and confusing enough for everybody else.

Meanwhile, her normal-person brain screamed inside while struggling to find a proper response.

«Then I should have curtsied?» Artemisia finally asked, wondering if she was actually inquiring over Hell’s proper etiquette, or lack of thereof. In her defense, Beelzebub actually seemed to consider it.

«No, I don’t think szo,» they eventually replied. «Now, to put it shortly: there should have been a war between us and Heaven – we would have won, obviously – but it all came to nothing.» They paused to wave away a particularly annoying fly. «Since that, the morale has been low. I need someone who can test the watersz and then report everything to me.»

_Do they want a therapist, a spy, or both?_

«Why an alive human, though? I am sure that there must be a psychologist or two among the souls here,» asked Artemisia. «Does “Sigmund Freud” rings a bell?»

«Things happened that made us reconsider humanity's role. Cr- some demons spent a lot of time on Earth and became...sztronger. We want that too.»

Artemisia nodded, thinking how to phrase something akin to: _I understand. I mean, not really, I am only human so my vision is skewed and limited, but after so many preparations and centuries of waiting it must be shattering to see that all came to nothing. Especially since demons probably based most of their identity, if not all, on a strict Heaven-Hell dichotomy. _

«I obviously can’t fully understand, but I can image how stressful must have been to return to a resemblance of order after so much anticipation,» she eventually said, «Especially for you.»

«Yezz, exactly!» They replied, the frustration clear in their voice, before quickly regaining their composure. At least the flies were calmer now, noticed Artemisia; instead of swarming around Beelzebub’s face they hovered over their head, lazily flying in circles.

It sounded like there was a lot to unpack, and for the first time since she got dragged here, she actually found herself considering the proposal.  
There were many factors at play: on one side a soul-crushing job in a terrible environment, on the other literally Hell. The fact that she still didn’t know what happened to the other candidates also weighed heavily – although the man in Cornwall gave her a hint.  
On the bright side, at least christian iconography seemed to have gotten wrong the whole “eternal flames” thing. And since Heaven and Hell apparently existed, it could be useful to have some connections since she would ends up there anyway. “Heaven for the climate, Hell for company”, wasn’t it?

But most of all, it was pride.  
Why even bothering to get two degrees if all she could do was work in a damned call-center? And really, who other psychologist, sociologist or something-ist could brag about working with, well, demons? It was a whole new, uncharted, academic field.

_Pride and spite it is, then._

Artemisia shot a quick glance at Beelzebub under her lashes; they looked almost intrigued, with their head tilted and a speculating gaze. She wondered if somehow they could sense her motives; after all, pride was supposedly a sin.

«I imagine we will have to redact and sign a contract, then?» she asked, leaning slightly closer to her soon-to-be boss. Beelzebub looked surprised for half a second before materializing a sheet of parchment and a pen out of nowhere. They held them for a moment before passing everything to Artemisia.

«I will leave the menial paperwork to you,» they said in a bored, nonchalant tone. «Then I will give my verdict.»

_What a clever way to avoid admitting that they never wrote a contract for...whatever this is._

Artemisia didn’t know then, but she was the first human, alive and whole, to went to Hell in the physical sense (and not only in the metaphorical one, which was and still is very common). And while Dagon excelled in coming up with forms designed to be impossible to fill correctly, an official employment contract with a human was something definitely outside her comfort zone.  
Beside, nobody really believed that someone would come that far.

She took the pen, ignored how said pen has been methodically chewed on, and then proceeded to write on the slightly damp parchment. She opted for a classical nine to five schedule with free weekends and paid sick leaves, then wrote down a figure which was basically two months of her current salary, hoped that demons couldn’t understand how human money work, and then passed back the sheet to Beelzebub. While they were reading they frowned only once, which was a good omen in Artemisia’s opinion.

«It is not entirely unreasonable,» they conceded. «But to me you should szzimply work all the time.»

_Ah, you wish! _

«Well, I am only human, fragile and weak compared to a demon,» she explained, choosing her humblest tone. «I’d waste away and then you would have to go through this bothersome process all over again.»

«It is bothersome,» admitted Beelzebub, fiddling with the pen’s cap. «Very much szo.»

«I could work on Sunday instead of Friday if you want,» she proposed instead, after all they were being civil, so why not? «Maybe demons will appreciate the irony? Working on a day of rest and all that.»

Beelzebub made the choked noise again, which at this point Artemisia decided it was their laughter indeed. It was kind of endearing after you got used to it.

«We have a deal, then,» they said, tracing something on the paper with their index finger before presenting it to Artemisia. She took the pen and signed next to Beelzebub in elegant and clear letters; a stark contrast with their bold signature in the deepest black, more like a sigil than a name, almost burnt into the page.

«Yes, we do.»

*** * * **

«You are just jealous because she complimented my scales and not your ugly frog,» said Dagon smugly, stroking her silver cheeks. «I would have hired her just for that.»

«This is why you are stuck with the paperwork while we- while I do the important stuff,» hissed back Hastur. «And she is not ugly.»

Dagon rolled her eyes, ready to answer back, but Beelzebub coughed loudly, their swarm of flies returning to their usual buzzing.

«We signed the contract, so it is done,» they proclaimed loudly, as if there wasn’t just two other demons in the room. «Arguing is uselesszz, you should instead bet on how long she will last.»

«One week and she’ll disappear,» immediately answered Hastur, something in the word “disappear” hinting at unnatural causes.

«Excuse me, I’d say at least two!»

_One or two weeks didn’t change much_, privately reflected Beelzebub, _sooner or later, she will leave._

After all, Beelzebub just wanted a quick distraction so the lower demons could amuse themselves with something new before returning to the status quo. And signing a binding contract for something doomed to fail? That was properly evil, wasn’t it?

Surely the girl wouldn’t last.


	3. She walks in beauty (and sulphur burns blue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dead poets and relatively-friendly demons give some insight over minor mishaps such as: demises of Dukes of Hell, Hellfire and public Terrible Trials.
> 
> Or: just another working day in Hell.

Her first month in Hell has been an experience.

Just as rolling naked in scorpions could have been called an experience, except that her scorpions sometimes spontaneously combusted. Really, for being such a damp place Hell was incredibly flammable.

Artemisia coped as she usually did when confronted with a new obstacle: buying fancy stationery and drinking copious amount of tea. And stretching, lot of it.

But then, objects randomly bursting into flames aside, she made a few friends – well, friendly enough acquaintances – which made everything less daunting. She soon discovered that the souls of the damned were quite starved for attention and good conversation, which is how she made her First Friendly Acquaintance.

*** * ***

Artemisia was wandering amidst the innumerable rooms that all managed to look like abandoned offices, or classroom, since this one even had an old projector, filled with desks and piles of upturned chairs.  
She shivered, but it was unlike the usual coldness of Hell, subtle but persistent, settling deep into the bones; it reminded Artemisia of dipping one toes into the water of a stream, the cold biting only for a moment before turning into a pleasant numbness.

«Bonjour, mon petit fleur!» said someone in a rather decent French.

_Great, now I have to deal with harassers here too._

«Excuse moi, Je ne peux pas te voir,» she replied, turning around.

«Look harder, I am right here.»

There was something, standing over one of the desks; if she concentrated she could see the faint outline of a figure, as if covered by a curtain of mist, or a reflection in the water, always shifting with the light. Still, the longer she stared the more substantial the figure become, until she could see a man, with clear eyes and dark, curly hair. From his clothes, a rich orange jacket cut in a peculiar fashion, she guessed he died at least a century before.

«Oh, I haven’t looked this real in ages.»

The man beamed, jumping from the desk and landing with a slight flourish at Artemisia’s feet.

«What a portentous encounter, it must have been fate for sure. In fact, I have a composition in mind, just for you,» he adjusted his cravat and bent his head backward, in what Artemisia presumed he thought was an alluring pose.

«She walks in beauty, like the night-» he began.

«Of cloudless climes and starry skies,» recited Artemisia; she couldn’t help but laugh at the man sullen expression.

«I am sorry, Lord Byron, but it is quite a famous poem,» she said. «But a lovely one nonetheless.»

The praise mollified the poet a little bit, but he still looked less enthusiast than before. Artemisia sat on a desk less dusty that the others, gently patting the space at her side.

«I was going to eat my lunch, wanna join me?»

*** * ***

«I lyed on the ground, blood like crimson petals, as I immolated my life for the noble Greek people,» he lamented. «And then I woke up in Hell, since apparently I never resisted one single temptation in my entire life!» Byron huffed, clearly annoyed by this blatant injustice.

«The nerve,» replied Artemisia, chewing a bite of brioche, her dessert. She knew that Byron died of rheumatic fever, but he clearly decided that perishing on the battlefield made a more compelling tale. «If it can helps, now there are entire classes dedicated to your works and life. It is some kind of immortality.»

Byron sighed, one hand artfully tangled in his curls. «The thought will warm me while I waste my genius at the desk. I will also ponder on the charming messenger who brought me such relief.»

_UGH._

«Oh, desk, you say? No deep pit of eternal fire?»

Byron’s eyes darkened. «The Lord of the Files’ reign is terrible, with many, many forms to fill.»

«Eternal Bureaucracy as a punishment? How cruel indeed,» commented Artemisia, while thinking that actually it was a very practical idea to punish the souls and get the paperwork done at the same time. Still, she needed Byron’s insight on Hell’s inner workings, so she kept her opinion for herself.

«Indeed. Being able to escape and to talk with an alive woman is truly a balm for the soul.»

«Do souls escape often? It must be difficult, you will have to be very clever indeed.»

Byron smiled mischievously «Oh, not at all. I think that demons relish chasing us around Hell, it must be a pleasant distraction.»

Artemisia returned the smile and chose her next words carefully.

«But they must be terribly angry, after what happened lately. Oh, I do hope that they won’t take it out on you.»

«Angry? Most demons are bored as before. Duke Hastur is the exception, of course. But he was always inclined to wrath, although now he seems less dedicated than before. He lacks his usual spirit.»

«How so?»

«Caravaggio – ever the sentimental, who would imagine? – believes that it is because of what happened to Duke Ligur. But it matters not,» he shifted closer to Artemisia, voice lowering to a whisper. «Now, what arcane power brought such a beguiling woman here? Are you a siren, to torment us and remind what we lost? I would love to-»

As he appeared, Byron suddenly vanished, leaving behind only a wisp of silvery mist and the echo of a word that definitely sounded like “_merde__!_”.

Artemisia sighed in relief; Byron was becoming a little bit too expansive for her tastes.

She quickly grabbed her notebook and a pen to write down all the useful tiny bits of information. She didn’t know how much Byron could have embellished his tales, but some things were clear enough: in his area demons weren’t particularly upset for the whole debacle, everybody was often bored, and this “Ligur” was at the root of Hastur’s trauma – yes, trauma, because she could smell hints of PTSD a mile away, even on demons.

Artemisia was so engaged that it took her a few moments to realized that she wasn’t completely alone – if a stuffed animal in the form of a giant fly could be considered company, of course. It was placed where Byron has been minutes earlier, with its shining red eyes and little wings; overall it was a cute, less trying companion than him. In fact, before leaving the room for good, she took a moment to gently pet it, just to be sure to not offend it. One never knows, in Hell.

«Who is a charming little fly, uh?» she murmured, stroking its surprisingly warm head. Maybe it was just a trick of her imagination, but it softly buzzed, not unlike a purring cat.

«Bye bye!»

She waved before closing the door behind her; in that moment Artemisia could have swore to see it wink.

*** * ***

After that encounter, Artemisia decided to try a little bolder approach. This didn’t led to a premature death, as she initially feared, but to a thick bundles of notes that she used to compile a monthly report – because yes, properly drafted paperwork was important, Lord Byron.

She started to tag along the less annoyed demons, always mindful of never overstaying her welcome. Artemisia balanced politeness (which already confused most demons) and subtle questioning; really, it was almost endearing how many of them, after the first minutes of reticence, launched into recounting the entire story of their life.

One of the most extroverted was a young-looking demon named Eric who spent ages at the fields of Megiddo, prepping the stage for the Apocalypse, only to discover that all his work and waiting has been for nothing.

«Avocados, you say?» asked Artemisia, offering a salt-and-rosemary cracker.

«It was a joke!» Protested Eric, eyeing the snack before taking a tiny, tiny piece. «But then, I also mentioned Crowley, which in hindsight was a very bad move.»

«Oh, the infamous Crowley.» Artemisia had heard some stories about him, but they were all rather murky and contradictory; really, how was she supposed to believe that he invented the Spanish Inquisition? Humanity did that on their own. «Everybody has something to say about him. But I am sure that you know the true story.»

Eric puffed at the praise, straightening his blue scarf.

«Well, his name has become somewhat of a taboo.» He made a show of watching his back, but the corridor was empty. «Not only he lost the Antichrist, but he killed Duke Ligur when he and Duke Hastur went to his flat. I wasn’t at his trial, but I heard that he bathed in holy water and survived! Holy water!»

«Hastur saw this Ligur die? Before his eyes? And the trial, was it public?»

If so, that explained Beelzebub’s anxieties about the morale of Hell.

«Holy water, Misia, holy water!» Eric continued as if she didn’t spoke. «But then, it was to be expected. Crowley’s partner-in-crime is terrifying.»

«Partner?»

«I took the hellfire to Heaven – I told you, I do the important stuff – and the angel was tied to a chair so I may have asked to hit him-»

«Excuse me? While he was tied?»

«Don’t look at me like that! You’d want some action too after you have spent ages watching avocados grows! I couldn’t do it anyway, after he gave me that look...» He shivered a little at the memory. «I heard he survived too, and I’m not surprised. Terrifying, I tell you.»

«And he didn’t even got a trial,» murmured Artemisia. «Do you remember his name?»

«Ehh, I didn’t get it. It was weird anyway, being an angel and everything.»

He stopped at the feet of a particularly steep staircase, frowning; while chatting, neither of them really looked where they were going.

«I am not sure we can go up there.»

«Why not? I am supposed to look around, and you do the important stuff, isn’t it?» She innocently proposed; she wasn’t keen on stairs, at all, but the air felt different around it, smelling almost like the sea. It could be some kind of deception, but her curiosity urged her to investigate.

«Well, I won’t walk,» said Eric, squinting to see the end of the staircase and failing. «Don’t faint.»

Without warning, he grabbed her by the elbow and pulled forward. In the next breath, Artemisia found herself balancing precariously on the last step; she grabbed the handle of the door – grey and anonymous like all the others – glaring at Eric, who looked terribly amused.

«I love miracles.» He grinned, bowing his head. «After you!»

Artemisia expected to find the usual dark and dusty room filled with papers or discarded objects – in short, the hellish version of a broom cupboard.

In hindsight, she should have been a little bit more wary, because nothing could have prepared her for this.

She had visited a saltpan ages ago, still in France, and this immediately reminds her of it. Except that, instead of workers collecting salt in the shallow sea-water, here the souls harvested something else from the rocky ground, pushing it into high pyres that burned bright blue at the base and turned crimson at the top, sending sparks into the air. The white smoke spiralled high, forming light grey clouds.

«Woah,» she hears Eric murmur under his breath, taking in the scene before him. «That’s where they make it, then.»

«What?»

«Hellfire.»

«Supervisor 730 of Department of the Infernal Flame, what are you two doing here?»

They both turned in unison to face the apparently Supervisor; despite the piercing yellow eyes surrounded by white marks, they didn’t look particularly menacing, with their lovely olive skin and dark hair, braided and wrapped around their head. The demon stared at Eric, squinting.

«Don’t tell me that they need another bucket already,» they said flatly. «It takes time to harvest such a strong flame. The one I send downstairs for you to deliver was burning since the last century.»

«Uh? No- strong, you say? It didn’t even work!»

_Nope, bad start._

Artemisia grabbed the demon’s hand and firmly shook it, ignoring how their pupils seemed to dilate.

«Nice to meet you!» she said cheerfully. «We are actually here to pay our homage. You are doing a stellar job, I’ve been told.»

«Of course we are,» slowly said the Supervisor, inspecting their hand. «The souls here are the worst of the worst, and we are highly trained demons.»

_The worst souls for the worst job, _privately mused Artemisia, eyeing the pyres of sulphur; she guessed that the Hellfire was stored inside them, like a volcano. Not a comforting thought, really.

Still, if she looked harder, over and above the smoke, she could vaguely see the sky – or what she presumed was the sky. It moved and shifted like iridescent silk, with brief glimpses of light, pure and blinding, seeping through it.

_It’s __water,_ Artemisia realized as she gazed at that strange, pale sea. She guessed it was some kind of Limbo, a grey zone that stretched between Hell and Heaven.

She looked away, and noticed that the demon was staring at her with a strange, almost sad, expression.

«We cannot bear to look at it for too long. We are...uncomfortably close to the higher levels.» They quickly returned to a detached and professional appearance. «We have received Dagon’s memo about you. What you want to know?»

_What Dagon wrote in that memo, for a starter._

«As I’ve said, you are carrying on really well after the little mishap, you know. I am sure your work will be noticed.» A failed Apocalypse wasn’t definitely “a little mishap”, but still.

The demon shrugged, but Artemisia noticed a faint blush. Were they aware that their body could do that?

«I told you, we are skilled… and lucky. Some of ours got discorporated while on Earth – they were preparing the stage, you know, fire and death – and lost some Hellfire. We were terribly behind with the production, but soon after they got their bodies back as if nothing happened. Even that lost batch of Hellfire was here again.»

«I am sorry, everything returned as before? Even the discorporated demons?»

«Yes.»

Artemisia turned to Eric, «I think I should leave.»

«Good idea,» he agreed, eyeing the burning sulphur. «I don’t think you are supposed to breath this for too long. And I really don’t want to anger the Boss, you know?»

The Supervisor coughed a little; Artemisia could have been mistaken, of course, but it looked like they were fidgeting.

«Can you do that again? With your hand?» They asked through gritted teeth. «It was warm.»

«Of course.» Artemisia smiled and wrapped her hand around the demon’s one, gently squeezing it. «I don’t think I caught your name.»

«I told you, Supervisor 730.»

«I mean your name. You can’t be just a number.»

They looked surprised, and then frowned deeply.

«I don’t know.»

«Don’t worry,» Artemisia reassured them. «You will tell me the next time. I am sure it will be a proper demonic name.»

As they left, Artemisia mentally added two other notes in her growing analysis of demons: “touch-starved” and “identity issues”.

Hell, her monthly report was going to be huge.


	4. On the importance of paperwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, between musings over the nature of Hell and the importance of paperwork, ideas about Ligur's fate are finally put into actions.  
Well, almost.

Artemisia rushed through Ravenscourt’s orchard while the other morning passengers ignored her as usual. She highly suspected that Beelzebub, or some other demon, had something to do with it; if she saw someone running past a “DANGER – DO NOT TRESPASS” sign and into said danger she would probably try to to stop them.  
Artemisia knew that the danger in question was an underpass that led to the very same badly lit corridor that she walked the day of her interview. At this point she was almost fond of it.

Usually, she would try to make an attempt at small talk with the most friendly-looking demon, but today Artemisia walked quickly to her destination: Dagon’s infamous office.  
There was a small crowd nearby; a particularly brazen demon had their only ear pressed against the door.

«What is happening? Is she torturing them?» asked one demon.

«Are they suffering? Can you smell blood? Can you?» whispered another, bouncing on their feet.

«Shut up or I won’t ear a thing-»

A terrible, high pitched sound, which reminded Artemisia of angry, screeching seagulls fighting for food, made the demons wince away in pain. Then a long silence, which was possibly even worse.

«Next!» called Dagon’s cheerful voice from behind the closed door.

The demons quickly scattered, elbowing each other in their haste; one of them shoved Artemisia forward.

«You go first.»

Artemisia braced herself and slowly opened the door, peeking inside.

Terrible white neons aside, she was kind of jealous of Dagon’s office. Her desk wasn’t particularly spacious, being overcrowded with an old files shredder, but it still looked newer and cleaner than most furnitures that Artemisia saw so far. The shelvings were polished to the point of shining, every single section neatly labelled; they formed a labyrinth behind Dagon’s desk, defying every rule of architecture. No matter how hard she stared, the room seemed endless.

«Oh, our little pet,» greeted Dagon, reclining on a surprisingly comfy office chair. «I was just showing to this incompetent excuse of a demon what we do with forms that doesn’t comply with Memo 314/A.0002.»

She fondly patted the shredder – the incriminated source of the terrible noise, guessed Artemisia – while staring at the demon sit on a wobbly stool in front of her. He mumbled an apologize, while the salamander on his head ran to hide under his ratted jacket’s hood.

«Now leave,» ordered Dagon. The demon scurried away; Artemisia tried to shot him a sympathetic smile, but he barely glanced at her in his haste.

«There is no Memo 314/A.0002,» said Dagon gleefully. «But he wrote the title with a pink gel pen, which is unacceptable.»

She extracted another bundle of sheets, and Artemisia recognized her own report; she used a fancy, thick kind of paper in an attempt to look professional.

«I like the paper,» confessed Dagon, almost regretfully. Artemisia internally cheered, although she knew that she probably shouldn’t aim for the approval of someone who called her a “pet”. «And you used footnotes! This is not the complete disaster that I expected.»

Dagon took a stamp from a drawer and made to press it on the report, but then stopped mid-air.

«This interest of yours for discorporated demons is...peculiar,» she said slowly.

Artemisia shrugged with feigned disinterest.

«Maybe for a human it's the aspect most difficult to grasp, to return after death,» she replied. «In fact, I was hoping to- to have the opportunity to study the records, in order to fully understand it.»

Dagon studied her for a long moment, before nodding.

«I feel indulgent, since you didn’t use a gel pen,» she conceded. «But make it quick. Shelf 000012, letter D.»

Artemisia started to browse the most recent entries; she expected Dagon to ignore her, but instead the demon hovered closely, peeking over her shoulder.

«This was fun,» she said pointing at a line. «They spent almost two months stuck in the form of a goose before getting a new human-ish body. They have never been more productive.»

«That explain a lot about geese,» mumbled Artemisia while turning the pages to read the entries closer to the Not-Apocalypse. The dates overlapped, with less than a few hours before the issue of new bodies.

«Oh, these are the luckiest. The boy gave back their forms almost immediately,» commented Dagon. «With some drawbacks, of course.»

«For example?»

«Brief memory loss, or difficulties with using their powers – nothing serious. It is to be expected, when you don’t follow the proper procedure.»

«The Antichrist could heavily alter reality then.»

«Yes, of course he was! He was supposed to destroy the world! Are we conversing for a reason or were you just in the mood to waste my time?»

Now, Artemisia had a theory – well, more than one, but this one was more urgent that the others. She didn’t know how Dagon could react, but she appreciated her footnotes, so it was worth a try. So she took a deep breath, and dared to ask.

«I need to understand if there is a possibility, even a remote one, that a demon destroyed closely before the Apocalypse could have been brought back.»

Something flashed in Dagon’s light eyes, something dangerously close to _pity_.

«Ligur is gone, don’t give him hope. There is no turning back from a shower of holy water.»

«If the Antichrist could give form to things that weren’t real, then why shouldn’t he be able to bring back someone who was?» argued Artemisia. «The principle is the same, only reversed.»

«Then why he isn’t here, then?» asked Dagon. «Ligur would have returned immediately, I know it.»

«Another one of these drawbacks. You mentioned memory losses.»

«Brief memory losses. Brief.»

«Well, this is a unique case.» Artemisia eyed the shelvings. «I just need some time to study and confront the records of discorporations, before I can- before I can figure it out what to do.»

Dagon returned to her desk, where the stamp still lied near the report. She toyed with it for a moment, turning it in her hand over and over.

«Why are you doing this?» she finally asked, staring at Artemisia.

Artemisia thought about it, and the rational answer would have probably be: _I think that having a more ps__y__c__h__ologically stable Duke would improve the morale of Hell greatly. Also, I have my suspicions about the objects that casually combust while I am near them, so I am also being selfish. Moreover, it could be considered a good omen, after all the recent failures._

But Artemisia suspected that Dagon already thought all of this herself. She wanted something else instead; the demon was asking why she _cared_.

_I can’t fix my life, let me fix at least this. Let me do something right._

«I wouldn’t be at peace without at least trying to resolve it,» she finally admitted. «I want to mend things, to make them better. It is a terrible human thing.»

Dagon stared at her with an unreadable expression, then stamped her seal on the report.

«Suit yourself, then.»

*** * ***

The whole point of Hell is to never feel at peace again.

Beelzebub could see the logic behind it: an eternal succession of meaningless and fundamentally useless actions that slowly stripped the souls of their individuality, until they become nothing but one of the many fleeting shadows.

(What Beelzebub couldn’t yet see was that pretty much the same thing happened todemons too. Along the way, they got trapped in the same mechanisms that they helped built in the first place. If you reign in Hell, you have to be miserable too, isn’t it?)

Also, Beelzebub was certain that whoever come up first with the idea that Hell burned was a fool. Hell didn’t burn. Hell was the unrelenting shiver that seeps under your skin, freezing you to the core into a state of numbness until you forgot how you felt, what you were, before it.

Except for their marks, of course. Once golden freckles, Beelzebub’s boils still stung and warmed uncomfortably every time a fly landed on them; a reminder that demons aren’t meant to be touched, or gazed upon with nothing but revulsion.

The highest the Fall, the highest the punishment.

_And the highest the glory; you do not become Prince of Hell _ _for nothing._

Beside, they never cared much, only bothering to hide them to avoid upsetting the Antichrist. Not that it mattered, in the end.

And then there was Art- the girl.

After months since they first met her, she was still a troubling mystery.  
During their first interrogatory she has proven to have some brains, sure, but Beelzebub still expected her to be unfittedfor Hell, growing more tired and greyer and duller with every passing hour.  
But not only she did not fade, the human girl seemed to genuinely _like_ her job. It wasn’t surprising that, behind a façade of indifference or disdain, many demons seemed to gravitate toward her like moths to a flame. Beelzebub remembered the whispers they heard: _she listened to me __while __I told her about my job, she asked __for __my name…_

Even in Hell, she shone; not like the Sun, scorching and unforgiving, but like some gentle star, its light a source of comfort.  
But compassion is not meant for them, and stars are very far away from Hell.

_S_ _afe and distant, it's better to keep it that way._

That had been Beelzebub’s stance for the whole time, although sometimes their flies actively sabotaged it.  
Once they have been sent in their most unthreatening form, the one Beelzebub used for the Antichrist too, to catch a runaway without causing alert, and they returned all but purring, oozing contentment, and with no soul.

_«Who is a charming little fly, uh?»_

Really? Charming?

They had to take a long walk in the sulphur fields to calm themselves, their face strangely warm and red.

Charming? That was definitely a nice word. Too nice, in fact.

Still, it was definitely hard to ignore the girl if she kept implying these kind of things in her reports. And how did she managed to drag Dagon into it?

With a sigh, they got up; the flies buzzed with excitement.

«Don’t get szztrange ideas.»

They happily ignored Beelzebub and kept buzzing.

*** * ***

It is difficult to keep the track of time when one is deeply immersed in research, especially if the only clock available is broken; in Hell, it’s eternally six o’clock in the morning – and six minutes and six seconds.

This is not a problem for demons. This could be a problem for a human in her late-twenties that isn’t used to pull all-nighters anymore.

Beelzebub found her at the desk. Artemisia had folded the suit’s jacket to put it under her head in a resemblance of a pillow. Her arms were on display, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows; it was almost unreal, the absence of scars or boils or anything else other than terribly bare skin.

«Oh, humans and their need for sleep,» said Dagon with an exaggerated sigh. «It’s almost impressive, even when I tried to bite her she didn’t roused.»

Beelzebub arched one eyebrow.

«Bit lightly. Very lightly,» amended Dagon.

They wrapped their hand around Artemisia’s wrist, covering the frail, light blue veins, and squeezed it before quickly stepping back.

She jerkily woke up, hands fluttering to fix her hair and to smooth her blouse.

«I wasn’t sleeping,» she mumbled sleepily. «I was resting my eyes for a moment. These neons are really terrible.»

«Well, the moment lasted almost one hour.» Dagon clapped her hands. «Time to be productive and tell us what you found.»

Artemisia pulled a bundle of sheets of paper from a folder and spread them on the desk.

«I selected the record from one month prior and after the Apocalypse and confronted them,» she explained. «And there it seems to be a pattern behind all the memory losses; all the demons that experienced it harder were somewhat separated from their familiars -I don’t know if this is the right word...»

«It is not, but It fitszz,» admitted Beelzebub. «The animalszz that you refer to are a symbol of what we became after the Fall. Some demons are more linked to them than otherszz.»

«Crowley basically forgot about it, it wasn’t more than a spot of ink. The disgrace,» said Dagon, one hand over her scaly cheek and voice dripping with disdain.

«Also, discorporated demons usually return to Hell, but the uniqueness of Ligur’s case made something go wrong,» continued Artemisia, studying Beelzebub pensive face.

«You say we have to look for an amnesiac Duke of Hell and his chameleon,» they said slowly.

«We should check for his records and see where he could have gone after he left the place he was-»

«Murdered,» interrupted Dagon «It was a murder.»

«Murdered,» agreed Artemisia.

Beelzebub nodded, and so Dagon acted; she moved to a dark corner, where an old interphone with exposed wires gathered dust.

«Bring me all the records of the late Duke Ligur,» ordered Dagon to someone on the other side. After a moment, it started to buzz insistently; from Dagon’s look, this wasn’t suppose to happen.

«What do you mean “missing”?» she shouted into the handset, before slamming the interphone with a groan.

«You lost the documentszz,» said Beelzebub flatly.

«I may have got a promotion, but I am still foremost the Lord of the Files,» replied Dagon with a hiss. «I do not “lose” _anything_.»

«Maybe there were stolen,» tried Artemisia, more to appease them than anything.

«Nobody would dare,» said Dagon, baring her very pointy and shiny teeth.

«Maybe someone who doesn’t care much about consequences, or about your titles...»

_A_ _nother Duke, for example,_ she suddenly realized. It made a terrible sense, after all.

Artemisia didn’t look, but she could still feel Beelzebub’s stare on her, reaching the same conclusion and planning something that definitely wouldn’t be pleasant.

_Oh no._

Of course they will send her to retrieve them. Of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The idea of Hell as some kind of alienating corporation is loosely based on Max Weber's studies, so kudos to him :P While the headcanon that the animals on demons' heads are the actual demons inspired the whole Ligur theory; while I do not embrace that headcanon, it still seemed interesting to implement it someway, thus creating this kind of "demons' familiars" hypothesis. Does it makes sense? Probably not, but c'est la vie.
> 
> 2\. Since we are kind of close to the holidays, I wish to all readers a pleasant time! Also, a huge thank you to the people who comments, leave kudos or simply take some time to read this silly story. You are all lovely.


	5. The Persistence of Memory (part I/II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Duke of Hell is dragged in an impromptu therapy session, chameleons are found and Crowley's taste in interior design is debated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As you may have guessed from the title, this chapter will be divided in two parts, since otherwise we'd have an almost 5K chapter, which would be a little bit too much. The second part will be uploaded next week.
> 
> As usual, a huge thank you to all the readers <3 If you want to chat, I have the same username on Tumblr.  
See you all in 2020!
> 
> PS. Special mention to [these](http://rysttle.tumblr.com) [two](http://anticmiscellaney.tumblr.com) artists who definitely inspired me while I was writing Hastur's scenes. Thanks!

The office has been clearly used by two people for ages and ages. If Artemisia ignored the troubling amount of trash, mostly paperwork covered in scribbles and thus clearly rejected, she could spot a collection of mementos that spanned over centuries; the morning star used as a paperweight didn’t surprise her, but the Goya’s sketches pinned on a board definitely did. The two desks at some point has been pushed together to form a larger table, which was the tidiest and kind-of-cleanest piece of furniture available.

«Dagon asked me to give her the reports of- of the other Duke,» began Artemisia standing at the door on her tiptoes. «She needs them for...statistic reasons.»

«Statistic reasons?» asked Hastur; he stopped his current occupation – throwing darts at a photo on the wall – to stare at her, his dark eyes flashing dangerously.

«Or maybe you could describe them to me, and then I will report your best temptations,» quickly proposed Artemisia. It wasn’t what Beelzebub or Dagon wanted, but it was her best chance to actually get something at all.

«Or you could leave before I decide to set you on fire.»

«But that would be such a short term relief! And then Beelzebub would send another in my place to bother you.» Artemisia felt she deserved a raise for this conversation alone. «This way, you will only have to suffer me for a little bit, and then everybody will leave you in peace.»

Hastur grimaced at the word “peace”, but at least he didn’t immediately complain. Or set her on fire, which was a great plus in Artemisia’s opinion.

After some endless, extenuating, minutes of silence, Hastur took a cigarette’s butt from an overflowing ashtray and lit it with his hand. He took a deep drawn before exhaling the smoke on Artemisia’s face.

«Try to keep up.»

*** * ***

Artemisia definitely struggled to keep up, since Hastur hopped from one Century to another like it was nothing, telling a particularly interesting temptation in the medicean Florence just to skip to XIXth Century Ireland in the next sentence.   
Still, Artemisia noticed a pattern; Hastur and Ligur – because yes, apparently they were a package deal – had a penchant for desecrated graveyards, dark alleys and every decadent place full of shadows that one could imagine. She also noted a particular fondness for woods, bogs, and orchards; Artemisia guessed that deep down there was some unresolved issue about the garden of Eden, but she kept her own counsel. For now.

«It was just a game for him. Always been,» spat Hastur, finally arriving to nowadays. «We Fell for this, but oh not him! He acted like he was different, like he was the clever one and us the fools. Ligur was better than him in every single way, and Crowley walked away with everything! No punishment, nothing – as if he didn’t committed the worst crime to the best of demons.»

Hastur voice dripped bitterness, but there was something else underneath the rage; a thick, suffocating desperation that clouded everything else.

_His whole world stopped making any sense_, realized Artemisia. With every certainty collapsed, Hastur was like a spinning compass madly looking for a missing North.  
It wasn’t a surprise than he coped so badly with pretty much anything.

«He walked away with everything, his life and his stupid angel too,» repeated Hastur. «And we can’t even go after him, Satan’s knows what other tricks he has. Not that I would care for them anyway-» Hastur laughed, but it was an empty, shrill sound that made Artemisia cringe. Instinctively, she reached for her stress ball, a gift from a classmate that dated back to her university days, and then realized that there was someone who needed it more than her.

«Here,» she said, making it roll across the desk. Hastur studied it as if it was a piece of radioactive waste. «You can squeeze it instead of- when you are upset, I mean.»

«Oh, you aren’t a fan of being on fire? Pity.»

_Well, I just think that a watermelon-shaped stress ball could be a better coping mechanism than biting your own fingers while screaming, but thank you for confirming my suspicions about the mysteriously flammable objects._

She just shrugged.

«Well, nobody is a fan of that.»

«Nothing personal, but I bet with Dagon that you would ran away after a week. Thought that a few fires would do the job.» He stared at her and squinted, as if displeased to note that she was still in one piece. «It clearly wasn’t enough.»

«It was still impressive, though,» quickly improvised Artemisia, just to steer him from even less savory ideas. «I didn’t think that a broken rolling shutter could be so flammable. Or a sink.»

For all his surliness, Hastur quickly warmed to the idea of using a stress ball, squeezing it with gusto while loudly complaining that it was useless and stupid like all human things. Overall, Artemisia deemed it a success.

«So,» she tried. «About that records-»

«I am not an idiot,» he snapped. «Dagon doesn’t want them for “statistic reasons”. And you are going to tell me why Lord Beelzebub is involved too.»

His black eyes darted on something on Artemisia shoulder; the frog on his head slowly opened her mouth, her pink tongue peeking from it. She heard a faint buzzing and then a soft tickling as a pair of flies ran to hide behind her right hand. She instinctively curled it around them, shielding them from the frog’s hungry stare.

Artemisia had to think quickly. On one hand, lying to Hastur was a terrible idea from all points of view; beside, she didn’t believe that she could be capable of doing it. But then, what if she was wrong? Hope could be such a dangerous thing.

«We have... a theory,» she said slowly. «And we hoped to read Ligur’s records to prove it.»

A wild, quick emotion passed in Hastur’s eyes.

«A theory! What kind of theory?»

«It is too soon to tell, but we wanted to check Cr- where it happened,» she got up from the desk, stretching her sore legs. «But I won’t bother you any longer.»

Before leaving, Artemisia glanced over her shoulder; Hastur was hunched over the table, one hand clenched around the stress ball and the other holding the lit cigarette.

«It wasn’t your fault,» she said quickly, the words all but tumbling from her lips.

Hastur didn’t turn but laughed, a thin and hollow sound that sounded more like a sob.

«If you are wrong, leave the city.»

Artemisia nodded at Hastur’s back.

«Fair enough.»

*** * ***

«Mayfair? This Crowley has fancy tastes.»

At Artemisia’s side, Dagon scoffed.

«Now I remember why I only come to Earth to have some fun in the lakes,» she said, watching the building’s modern exterior with suspicion. «Human architecture has gotten worse.»

«Well, to be honest I agree. We peaked with the Liberty’s style-»

Beelzebub stomped past them to the main door, which automatically opened before them.

«When you two are done diszzcussing architecture, we have real work to do.»

They took the stairs, a choice that Beelzebub soon came to regret; Crowley lived at the fifth floor and, demon or not, stairs weren’t ideal for entities with relatively short legs. Or just not used to stairs at all.

«Why we didn’t take the lift? Why?» asked Dagon in a strangled voice from the third floor.

«Looking for hints.» Artemisia managed quite well to hide the shortness of breath, although Beelzebub still noticed her reddened cheeks and heaving chest.

Beelzebub also very much noticed how strangely pleasant it felt when she suddenly grabbed their hand as they turned the doorknob of Crowley’s front door.

«I should go first,» she argued. «What if Crowley has put another trap before leaving?»

Beelzebub has sent their flies to watch the flat, of course, and beside discovering that Crowley hasn’t been there for a while they didn’t noticed anything suspect. Moreover, there was something else that didn’t sit well with the demon.

«And what if there iszz a trap and you walk into it? Tell me.»

«From what I’ve understood neither him or the angel would hurt a human,» said Artemisia, her eyes pleading. «And I will be very careful, if it can reassure you»

«It is the same for me,» quickly lied Beelzebub, «But it could be a nuiszzance.»

Artemisia sighed, letting their hand go.

«I know you don’t care, don’t worry about your reputation.»

«It iszz not about-»

With a groan, Dagon kicked the door ajar.

«No trap! Excellent, let’s go!»

Artemisia still wanted to go first into each room, peeking from the threshold before they explored them. However, soon enough it became clear that the only threat was Crowley’s debatable taste in interior design.

«Really, a throne,» said Dagon flatly, eyeing the golden seat with its carved backrest. «I am not surprised. The statue is nice, though.»

Beelzebub agreed; in the vicious fight depicted, it was clear that evil was triumphing over the angel, whose body was pressed to the ground in defeat.

Artemisia failed to conceal her laughter with a small cough.

«Oh, I don’t think they are fighting,» she said, amusement clear in her voice.

Dagon squinted while inspecting the sculpture closer.

«What do you mean?»

«Look at the plants!» exclaimed Artemisia, hurrying to the next room, although probably the term “greenhouse” would have been more appropriate.  
They found themselves surrounded by a miniature forest of lush and leafy plants that somehow didn’t withered after being left on their own devices for weeks. It must have been the terror that still hovered in the air, guessed Beelzebub.

«You are stunning, aren’t you?» murmured Artemisia to a large aloe vera, which seemed to vibrate with pleasure at the praise. One particularly audacious ficus bended his slender branches towards the girl, leaves almost caressing her face. She happily continued her inspections, passing from a plant to another in a string of compliments that led her deeper into the small jungle. Beelzebub stayed behind, reluctant to follow Artemisia past the carnivorous section.

«They look tasty,» said Dagon, looking at the plants’ lush foliage with interest. «Found something?»

«No.»

«Actually, yes.»

Artemisia cradled the chameleon with great care, both her hands gently wrapped around it. Not that it mattered, since the reptile already had its tail tightly coiled around one of her wrists. The chameleon’s left eye stared at them, its skin changing from blue to a vibrant orange.

«Ah!» said Dagon.

Beelzebub definitely agreed.

*** * ***

«Where and how did you find it?!» asked Dagon while Artemisia checked both sides before crossing the street. She seemed very sure of which way to go, noticed Beelzebub.

«I guessed that a chameleon would prefer tree-like plants, so I looked among the tallest ones. Beside, they immediately changed colour so it wasn’t hard to spot them. It is almost as if they wanted to be found.» She stroked the chameleon head, which looked far too pleased by the attention in Beelzebub’s opinion. They glared at the animal, just to instill some humbleness into them. They were utterly ignored.

«Alright miss know-it-all, why are we going into a park?»

They were standing at one of the entrances of Hyde Park, its high iron gate closed for the night.

«Hastur and Ligur used to spend a lot of time in parks and woods, so maybe-»

«You think this is where Ligur could have gone in his confused szztate, since this park iszzz the closest to Crowley’s flat,» completed Beelzebub; it only took a snap of fingers to make the gate’s chain crumble.

«Oh, thank you!» said Artemisia, pushing the gate open.

«Nice legs! Drop the ugly chicks and bring them here!» screamed a man in front of a pub on the other side of the road, a bottle in each hand. He shrieked once more, this time in pain, when they both shattered, sending shards of glass flying around him.

«Thanks to whoever did that,» said Artemisia, hurrying through the gate and firmly shutting it behind them.

«You own me one,» replied Hastur, emerging from the shadow of an oak. Beelzebub could have swore to see him quickly hide a squishy ball in his coat.

The chameleon fixed both his eyes on him, shifting to emerald green to match Hastur’s frog. Hastur was similarly strucked, a weird glimmer in his stare that in another demon Beelzebub could have mistaken for a resemblance of tears.

«Do you want to hold them?» asked Artemisia in a gentle tone, bringing it closer to Hastur. He looked tempted – the _irony_ – but still stepped back.

«Who do you think I am? Some kind of sentimental demon?» he said with disdain, his eyes never leaving the reptile.

«Yes, you are,» said Dagon cheerfully, grabbing Hastur’s scarf and pulling him away. «Now let’s be productive and see if Ligur is actually here. We will go West!»

Beelzebub threw a sideways glance at Artemisia.

«You said it changed colourszz often, like it wanted to be found.»

Artemisia raised the chameleon, studying it. «Do you think we could use them as a sort of compass? Clever.»

Beelzebub nodded shortly.

«We will go Easzzt.»


	6. The Persistence of Memory (part II/II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover that public parks are the ideal setting for overdue reunions between Dukes of Hell.

For a while they walked in silence among the tall, bare trees, a curtain of intertwined branches over their heads.

«Almost full,» Beelzebub heard Artemisia murmur, eyes raised to the moon peeking between the ashy clouds. If pressed, Beelzebub could vaguely recall gazing at it the very first time it hung in the sky, foolishly thinking it was meant for them.

«There is nothing szzpecial about it,» they said. «Believe me, I szzaw it being made.»

Artemisia hummed in response, absently stroking the chameleon with her hand. The animal was currently a muddy, unpromising colour.

«It is just a lovely sight in the sky until you start assuming it has some hidden meaning. I guess we like to see symbols everywhere. And tides are quite magical if you think about it.»

«Tideszz? The angel that came up with them was an idiot.»

Artemisia laughed at that, a sound that Beelzebub never expected to elicit from anyone, ever.

«Sorry, I must have forgot that you have... well, quite a different perspective than me.»

Beelzebub wondered how she could forget – even just for a second – that she was talking, and walking in a dark park at night, with a demon. They never forget; the Fall, Hell itself, everything made sure they all never forget.

Without quite realizing it, they had abandoned the main path to wander on a secondary, smaller, one. The bare scenario was replaced with evergreens trees and shrubberies, which seemed to create the impression of a small wood, wilder and damper than the other areas.  
The chameleon grew restless, moving from Artemisia’s hands to perch on her shoulder only to return to her arms a few minutes later. As they walked among the trees to reach a stone bench on the side walk, its skin began to change into a dark purple.

Until that moment, deep down Beelzebub believed that Artemisia would eventually fail. Yes, they did found the chameleon, but maybe it was the only part of Ligur that had been brought back. Maybe they were just wasting time and hopes – not that a demon could be such a fool to _hope_, mind you. Maybe it was all for nothing as ever and forever.

But then, there was a demon on the bench.

Said demon was looking at the pond, its waters rippling from the occasional fish skimming the surface, and utterly ignored them.

«Is that him? Dark, tall, nice leather coat?» breathed Artemisia, struggling to keep the chameleon still. «We need to do something before the others arrive.»

«Why?» In Beelzebub’s opinion, Hastur was the best demon to handle the situation.

«I know, Hastur would seems the best person to handle the situation,» argued Artemisia. «But I don’t think that seeing Ligur like that would be beneficial to his mental health.»

«Hiszzz what?»

«He would be sad.»

Beelzebub shrugged; they were miserable already. «Who careszz?»

«I do!»

«You two, stop talking.» Ligur turned to frown at them; his dark eyes posed for a moment on the chameleon, but he quickly returned to watch the water instead. «I am waiting, and you two are bothering me.»

«Bothering?!» Amnesia or not, Beelzebub couldn’t believe the disrespect. «I will make you drown in paperwork when you will return-»

«What are you waiting for?» asked Artemisia, slowly walking closer to Ligur.

«It doesn’t concern you.»

There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice that made Beelzebub realize that he had no idea what he was waiting for.

«I think they like you,» Artemisia said, looking at the reptile. «They could keep you company while you wait.»

Ligur’s eyes widened, his right hand reaching toward the chameleon, who all but leaped to meet it. Still, at the last moment he retreated as if burned.

«I do not know you, both of you,» insisted Ligur. «Now, leave me alone.»

«Szztop playing,» snapped Beelzebub, grabbing the demon by the arm and making him stand. «You are Ligur, Duke of Hell, one of the first fallen. You better remember that, and be proud of it. And thiszzz is not a suggestion, it is an order.»

«Memories can be a heavy burden,» said Artemisia in a gentler voice. «But you have to know your name. Here, take them, even if just for a moment.»

Ligur’s eyes darted from Beelzebub to Artemisia, still uncertain, but he slowly took the chameleon, who immediately scaled his arm to perch on his head, tail curling around the demon’s neck. Something changed in Ligur’s eyes, alight like a sudden lightning in a dark sky; the chameleon shifted with them to a bright yellow – almost golden.

«Yes, I remember my name,» he said calmly. «And I know yours, Lord Beelzebub.»

«It waszzz about time.»

He fixed his stare behind them, a hint of a smile at his lips; it seemed that Dagon and Hastur finally caught up with them.

«Dagon already replaced me, I see. No respect for the dead,» he joked darkly. «And Hastur,» finally greeted Ligur, chameleon and eyes shifting to a darker shade of green. Hastur made a high pitched sound, all but collapsing on his knees in front of Ligur, hands frozen mid-air as if he was afraid of touching him. Ligur resolved the issue for him, reaching for his forearms and gently squeezing them; it was more than enough to dissolve any doubt that the demon may have had.  
Even Dagon laughed as the two fell on the grass in a tangle of legs as Hastur all but threw himself at Ligur, head pressed against his chest. From somewhere in his hair, the frog croaked happily.

«We are right here, you know, you can’t be as gross as you want,» she chided after some time.

«Oh, it is just an enthusiastic hug. I’ve saw far worse in public parks,» said Artemisia, shuddering a little at the memory.

«Leave them be.» Beelzebub was feeling magnanimous; after all, retrieving a lost Duke of Hell was a decisive victory. The sudden explicit demonstration of feelings troubled them, though, since demons weren’t supposed to feel nothing close to affection or, least of it, _love_.

_We can’t be loved_, they rationalized, _but maybe their attachment make__s__ them more productive? _Still, Hastur lately has been anything but productive. _He__ w__as__ v__ulnerable_, they bitterly realized_, love only makes you vulnerable__._

And then Artemisia looked at them, smiling openly like seeing the two demons reunited was her greatest pride. With a smoky street lamp above her, she looked radiant – a halo of moths around her head.

«Why are you doing that?»

Artemisia quickly composed herself, her smile turning into a polite, small upturn of lips.

«Emotions clearly overcame me,» she excused herself.

Beelzebub suddenly realized that what they wanted to say was: do that again.

But it was too late now. Artemisia wasn’t looking at them anymore; her attention was on Ligur and Hastur, who both rose from the ground.

«We won then,» said Ligur, inspecting his surroundings. «We finally have the Garden.»

«No, we didn’t- we don’t,» replied Hastur in a low, almost gentle voice that Beelzebub didn’t thought he was capable of producing. Ligur abruptly stopped gazing at the trees to look at them with a frown.

«Then we lost? Impossible.»

Hastur looked at Dagon, who shrugged and pointed at Beelzebub, who turned toward Artemisia with a raised eyebrow. After all, it was her idea to begin with.

«Maybe we should relocate, for all the necessary explanations?» she proposed. «A sidewalk in a park is not the ideal place for conversation. This way, Duke Ligur could return to Hell feeling less...disoriented.»

«If well done it could be a great moment for uszz,» slowly said Beelzebub, nodding. Focusing on organizing Ligur’s return was better than losing themselves in deluded fantasies.

«A triumph!» exclaimed Dagon, clearly envisioning all the memos that she will send out, making sure that some exaggerated rumors will reach Heaven too. «So, where are we going?»

*** * ***

Artemisia’s flat was definitely better than Crowley’s – not that Beelzebub would ever admitted it aloud. It had places to sit, for an instance, and Beelzebub immediately occupied the armchair, pleased that for once their feet touched the ground.  
They discretely inspected the living room, but beside an overflowing library and some posters there weren’t any personal objects or photos. While it was clean and tidy, it still didn’t felt like a home. Which was quite an absurd thought to have, Beelzebub realized; what would a demon know of _home_? They choose to inspect Artemisia’s whereabout instead. She was fretting at the stove, boiling water for tea as if having demons in her living room was a completely common occurrence in her life.

From his position on the couch between Hastur and Dagon – who promptly hoarded all the pillows – Ligur looked, if possible, even more confused than before while they explained all the events after his demise at Crowley’s flat; the demon’s betrayal, the failed Apocalypse and the subsequent trial.

«And now?» asked Ligur at the end of the admittedly convoluted story.

_Only Satan knows_, ruefully thought Beelzebub, before realizing that Satan has been missing since the failed Apocalypse, so absolutely no one knew. Nothing was written anymore.

«Tea?» offered Artemisia.

No one actually drank it, but Beelzebub had to admit that the sweet scent and the warm it emitted weren’t completely unpleasant. There was an open jar of honey on the coffee table and they had to restrain themselves from tasting it.

«We have decided to try a new approach,» said Beelzebub. «Thiszz is why we have employed a human.»

Beelzebub realized it was only half a lie; even if hiring the girl had started as a way to distract demons from the recent string of failures, it clearly became something more than that.

«But Crowley! We can’t just let him walk away,» argued Hastur, grabbing Ligur’s arm.

«We will deal with him in time,» conceded Beelzebub. «But _I_ will szzay when and how. I won’t accept indipendent initiatives. We don’t know what he iszz capable of,» they added, hoping that Hastur would catch the underlying threat. If not, Ligur would probably do in his place. In fact, the demon nodded, deep in thought; he looked far less angry than his partner despite being the one who got killed.

«A new perspective,» he said, his eyes darting to Artemisia. «Human girl, it seems that I am regrettably in your debt.»

«Oh don’t worry, I am easy to please,» she quickly answered. «I just want to be called with my name, for a starters, since we discovered that they are rather important.» She put the teacup down to offer her hand to a rather bewildered Ligur. «Artemisia Hirondelle, Hell’s only therapist-slash-spy, nice to meet you.»

Ligur actually shook Artemisia’s hand – well, more like her fingers, but still – while never stopping looking very surprised about the outcome.

«Now feel free to make your triumphal entrance to Hell,» said Artemisia. «I’ll go to bed.»

Only halfway to Hell Beelzebub realized that, in fact, they _all_ were in Artemisia’s debt.  
And it would be unbecoming for a Prince of Hell to forget about the proper rewards and ceremonies. Demons or not, they _had_ standards.

*** * ***

Contrary to her statement, Artemisia didn’t go to bed.  
She emptied and cleaned the tea cups, then threw her jeans and socks on the sofa to curl on the armchair by the window; she could hear the bell’s chiming in the distance. It was midnight then; the 12th of November has just passed, and how weird was that she spent her 26th birthday looking around for a now-not-lost-anymore Duke of Hell? She sighed, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. After the eventful day, she didn’t mind the silence and quiet of her flat.

There was a hint of brimstone, she noticed wrinkling her nose, but nothing that a good air freshener couldn’t chase away.

«Do you plan on szzleeping there?»

Artemisia was too relaxed to actually care about the intrusion; beside, she already suspected that demons’ manners weren’t really stellar when Dagon not-so-stealthily stolen one of her pillows.

«Please, don’t tell me that there is a scorch of hellfire on the parquet, the landlord would kill me,» she joked, prying one eye open. «And next time feel free to ring the bell.»

Artemisia got up, suddenly glad that her soft sweater was long enough to pass for a dress, albeit a short one. She wasn’t that shy, but Beelzebub was technically her boss – although a boss than barged in her flat without notice.

«You did uszz a great service,» they began, one hand toying with the fringed end of their crimson sash. Artemisia wondered if they were fidgeting, and if so what they were so anxious about.

«Well, you are welcome?»

«You must want szzomething in return.»

_There it is._

«Look, I already embarrassed myself with Dagon. I did this because I wanted to try to fix a problem, not because I expected a reward or anything. I wanted to do something right, for once.»

Beelzebub was staring at her with a strange expression, but at least they weren’t frowning as usual. Beside, past 23 pm Artemisia’s inhibitions were always looser.

«If you really want to do something, what about convincing a billionaire to give their money away? I also wouldn’t mind more rights for queer people, if a miracle is enough to convince politicians.»

«That would anger some people, and wrath is a szzin,» conceded Beelzebub, «It could be done.»

Artemisia smiled; it probably was a tired, small thing but it was all she had.

«See? We are even.»

«Not yet.»

Beelzebub slowly stepped closer, almost wary, as if Artemisia was the powerful demon and they the hapless human. Artemisia noticed something shiny on their black jacket; two small pins shaped like crowns, one on each lapels.

In a quick move they took one and placed it over Artemisia’s left breast, pinning it to the fabric.

«A token. For your szzz- service,» they said in low, raspy voice that surprised Artemisia more than anything else. «Szzince you don’t want any other material reward.»

«Gratitude is a reward in itself.»

Beelzebub snorted at that, but Artemisia didn’t noticed any malice in their light eyes.

They let go of the pin and tightly clasped their hands behind their back, quickly stepping back.

«It is late, but I szztill expect to see you in time tomorrow.»

And with that, they were gone.

Artemisia took a deep breath; for some reason, she felt breathless as if she had run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sooo, I can finally add Ligur to the characters' list, yay.  
2\. Yes, Artemisia is a Scorpio, do what you want with this information :P
> 
> As usual, a huge "thank you" to anyone who takes time to read this story <3 ! You are all lovely.


	7. Homeward bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some not-so-old acquaintaces return to London, and new plans are hatched.

Under a suspiciously lush apple tree, with a gentle hand carding through his hair, a demon napped.

If he had been human, Crowley would have probably said that he was in Heaven. But he knew better, and nothing, nothing was more different from the vast, blinding emptiness of Heaven than the warmness that was Aziraphale. He turned his head, buried in Aziraphale’s lap, to press it against the angel's hand and nuzzling it, more cat-like than snake.

«Someone is particularly clingy today,» gently said Aziraphale. His eyes apparently never left the book held in his other hand, but Crowley knew that he had his attention. He wanted more, though.

«Today is colder, and you’re warm.»

Aziraphale hummed, putting the book aside – _finally_, internally cheered Crowley – to study the sky with a pensive face.  
Even at Devil’s Dyke, and even if their cottage had an abundance of miracles and spells alike protecting it from unwanted visitors, you can’t escape seasons. Winter was looming on the horizon after all, and the air already seemed to carry a promise of snow with its biting winds from the sea. Not the ideal climate for a cold-blooded demon, really.

«Do you think we should go back to London?»

«Ehmp,» said Crowley, turning to face Aziraphale. «If you want to?»

«It _is_ getting colder,» he admitted, «And we left the bookshop and your plants alone for quite sometime.»

«They know how to behave, or else.»

Crowley never regrets leaving the city in a hurry after the little trick that they had played on their respective sides. He took the Bentley and drove to the bookshop, all the while thinking: what if they never figure it how how we did it? But what if they _do_? How long do we have? Had they done it already? How long?

«Let’s go. I will give you a ride, anywhere you want.» He has told Aziraphale, again, standing on the threshold, the Bentley’s engine still turned on.

Crowley remembered the column of fire, and _hoped_. This time, Aziraphale said yes.

As he drove away from London, with Aziraphale’s hand gently placed on his knee, now branded forever, he dared to hope once more.

Crowley spent the next month driving from city to city; to Amsterdam to Prague to Budapest and then East, until they saw the Danube turning into the sea, both unsure if they were travelling or running away.  
At some point – Istanbul, the Bosphorus stretching before them – Aziraphale looked at him and said: «We should go home.»

As Summer turned to Autumn, they found themselves in a cottage in the South Downs’ Region, and Crowley had to pretend that he didn’t fantasize about this for ages. He soon discovered that his dreams were nothing, _nothing_, compared to the reality of Aziraphale’s hand on his nape as he kissed him, bathed in the golden light by the kitchen's window.

«I wanted to do it for a while,» he confessed later, much later, the sunset turned into night. «But it did not felt right, when we were abroad. Or watched.»

«I understand. You wanted to be home, and you wanted to be free.»

«We are now.»

_Let me keep him_, prayed Crowley to the starry sky, _let me have this_.

The stars never replied, but that didn’t stop Crowley from hoping.

*** * ***

Demons are not particularly used to deal with such silly things as _feelings_.

In hindsight, this was probably why Beelzebub spent quite some time after Ligur’s return avoiding Artemisia. Not that they would ever use that wording – they just found themselves incredibly busy in sectors of Hell that casually were in the opposite direction from where Artemisia was. And if they were more commanding than usual, stomping around and shouting random orders, it was just one of the perks of being the Prince of Hell.

However, Beelzebub was also aware, deep down, that this couldn’t last forever.

Artemisia had turned in her monthly report for November – it was December already after all – and paperwork is not something that one could avoid, especially in Hell. Moreover, they had to discuss with her of an Idea, for which it was necessary to meet in person, obviously. The temptation to send someone else to speak with Artemisia – Ligur for example, since amnesia or not he had months of work to catch up – was there, but at the same time they didn’t really want to.  
Since when they had such unexpected and bothersome doubts?

In the meantime, Artemisia discovered the sectors of Hell where demonic animals were handled, and she was having the time of her life.

«Nothing new then?» she asked while passing a toasted hazelnut through the bars of a large cage, the magpies following every movement with their beady eyes before scrambling to get the treat. Among the demons who supervised the aviaries two of them were rather chatty and fond of gossip. They also had a penchant for shiny things, of which there was a shortage in Hell. This was how Artemisia initially gained their trust: with glittering earrings that now the demons proudly wore all the time.  
They looked pretty, thought Artemisia, paired with their silver hair and the dark feathers that stuck from their heads like fans.

«It’s hard to find a better news than Duke Ligur’s return,» said Edda while stuffing a seagull in a garbage chute. It was a rather unorthodox method of sending the demonically trained birds to Earth, but it worked. And it made them very, very pissed.

«Is he so popular?»

Artemisia had read Dagon’s official statement, which had been plastered on every flat (and not) available surface, and find it rather well done for a piece of propaganda. It had a lot of phrases about the Duke’s “literally undying loyalty to Hell’s cause which made it immediately return to his senses”, which were supposed to set an example. But she wanted to know the opinion of the lower demons.

«Well, he is a Duke, so he must be a really good demon,» shrugged Edda. «Beside, he spends most of his time with Duke Hastur.»

«This is why we like him, he is never around!» cheerfully added Ella. They were identical twins, but at least had proper names; it still took Artemisia some practice to notice the differences between them – a scar on the left eyebrow for Edda, a large black mole on Ella’s nape.

«On Earth is the same, it is always nice when bosses aren’t around.»

The twins snickered, elbowing each other’s sides. «Oh, but you like your boss now, don’t you?»

Artemisia quickly tucked the small crown under her clothes; after some pondering she had hung it on a silver chain to reuse it as a necklace.

«That’s nothing,» she replied with a nonchalance that she didn’t felt. «Now, triumphal returns aside, you have nothing else to add? Complains, suggestions?»

The twins exchanged an excited look before starting to talk at the same time.

«Most demons really don’t know how to handle animals.»

«We would have done such a better job with the Hellhound!»

«I want more shiny things!»

«You should talk with Adis from the third circle, the leak ruined her office.»

«Yes, it’s getting worse.»

Artemisia nodded, writing down some keywords on her notebook such as “more cross-departmental training” and “eternal leak”. The twins probably wanted to say more, but they abruptly stopped, both displaying the same surprised expression before quickly bowing.

«Lord Beelzebub,» they greeted in unison.

Said demon walked among the cages, the birds suddenly silent and still as the flies buzzed louder. The crimson sash and various insigna appeared brighter as they straightened their jacket, clearing their throat.

«I require to speak with her,» they loudly said, almost a proclamation. «And I am szzure you two have work to do.»

Edda and Ella scurried away, but Artemisia could still feel their stares on her, hungry for every bit of conversation. At some point they had mentioned some kind of hellish periodic, said “Infernal Times”, and Artemisia really didn’t wanted to be featured in the gossip section. It has been enough to be mentioned in Dagon’s statement, although she skipped that part; it was always so embarrassing to read about herself.

«If it’s important, then we should go in a more... private setting.»

Beelzebub glared at the twins, who pretended to be deeply immersed in the study of a pile of straw a few meters from them.

«Yeszzz. Private.»

In the next breath, Artemisia found herself standing by a river’s bank, gazing at its dark waters swirling before her. The surrounding surprised her; she never imagined that in Hell one could find something so similar to a meadow. There were no flowers, but the grass was green and she could fancy to feel a gentle breeze on her face.

«It is so beautiful,» she murmured, ducking to dip the hand in the river, just to feel the water running on her skin.

«We are on the border between Hell and Earth, thingszzz get confused here,» explained Beelzebub, eyeing the surrounding. «Usually demonszz do not come in this area. It iszz...too exposed.»

«Well, I like it,» said Artemisia, proceeding to sit on the grass to watch the river. Beelzebub stayed very still, watching her.

«You should know that most demonszz would pin that brooch on their forehead, instead of leaving it somewhere,» they eventually said, wishing that it sounded more detached.

Artemisia frowned a moment before unbottoning some more her blouse to show the silvery pendant. «I did put it on my suit, initially, but I was afraid of dropping it somewhere and lose it.»

«I szzee,» they said, waving a fly away with a brusque nod. It was such a silly thing to notice, why did they ever mentioned it?

«Did you wanted to discuss about my last report? I know a few ideas were rather risky-»

«Yeszz, the leak comes from the Department of Infernal Flameszzz. The sea between uszz and Heaven won’t cooperate. We had that problem from the beginning, and it cannot be permanently fixed,» said Beelzebub, privately thinking that probably she shouldn’t have ventured in the worst circle of Hell. «But this iszzz not relevant.»

«No?»

«Your next mission will be on Earth,» they announced, making it sounds like a great matter indeed. «Crowley recently went to his flat, so he must be in the city.»

«Should I go and try to discover where his unexpected abilities comes from?»

«Yeszzz, but be careful,» said Beelzebub before immediately regretting it. «Or don’t, it iszz the same,» they quickly, _too quickly_, added.

Artemisia noticed their pained expression as they steadily avoided to look at her; the phrase has been almost nice, which was clearly too much for the demon.

«Well, I survived Hell, so far. I think I will be alright,» she said, unconsciously picking a soft, comforting tone.

«You have been lucky. If you got hurt, no one in Hell could help you; we cannot heal otherszzz.»

«Fun fact: humans have from four to six litres of blood. I think I could loose a few and survive just fine.»

Beelzebub laughed – their usual “are they choking?” laughter – and finally looked at her, albeit with raised eyebrows.

«That waszz a fun fact?»

«Why, I thought it was impressive.»

«Very impressive.»

Eventually Artemisia raised from the ground, stretching her legs a little bit.

«Time to leave the garden- well, meadow,» she said. «More details that I should know of?»

«Report directly to me. Do not write down anything.»

«Fair enough. So, where is Crowley now?»

*** * ***

Hastur was one for routine and habits, but lately between one “traumatic experience” and another – to quote the human girl – the rituals he so carefully constructed over centuries got reduced into a pile of dust. This is why a good old lurking session was definitely what he needed, he thought as Beelzebub explained their mission.

Even if it meant that he and Ligur had to stand hidden in a parking lot, watching the same building entrance for hours. Not the most exciting lurking, to be honest.

«Did you managed to spot the bastard?»

Hastur took a long draw from the cigarette before passing it to Ligur. Trying to tempt someone was off the table since they had to stay hidden in the shadows, so smoking was one of the few pastime available.

«Not yet,» he replied.

They had been there for the whole morning, but Crowley still had to return to his flat. Beelzebub assured them that their flies spotted him the day prior, although he didn’t spent more than a few hours in there before driving away. As much as Hastur trusted their leader, which was already remarkable for a demon, something told him that Crowley has left the flat for good, and that waiting for him was useless.

«We should go and see for ourselves,» proposed Ligur at some point around the 12th hour of watch, when he voiced his doubts.

«No!» Hastur still remembered the water falling in an arch, the terrible smell, the scorch on the floor. He would have rather burned the whole building to the ground than to step in it again. Ligur nodded; somehow, he must have understood all of that.

«I do not remember it,» he said, eyes raised to Crowley’s windows, maybe hoping to see a light being turned on.

«Lucky you.»

«Lucky me,» agreed Ligur. «And I missed many things. What do you think of it?»

«Satan is gone, the Trial was bloody useless and I had to go through a “therapy session” with the human girl, whatever that meant,» recapped Hastur. «I don’t know which was worse.»

Ligur gave his hand a quick squeeze, which meant: you shouldn’t have done all that alone. Through history, there have always been two of us.

«Everything is terrible as usual, then.»

«Not everything,» admitted Hastur, pointedly looking at him.

Ligur hinted a smile before taking a drag from the cigarette; he passed it back to Hastur, bringing it to the other demon’s lips.

«Not everything.»

They officially gave up after the 27th hour of waiting.  
And eventually, they had to report the frustrating result of their little mission to Beelzebub, who waited for them in one of their offices.

They weren’t alone, though. The girl was standing near Beelzebub’s chair, close enough that if she moved just a little bit to the left her hand would have brushed against Beelzebub’s one, clasped around the armrest. And yet she didn’t felt like an intruder; in fact, she looked just in the right place.

«We hid in the parking lot, as ordered,» began Ligur. «We stayed for many hours, but nothing happened.»

«He never showed up. We waited for nothing,» complained Hastur; he itched for a cigarette, but he knew that technically Hell was a smoke-free area, and he wasn’t in the privacy of his and Ligur’s office. So he discretely slid a hand in his pocket and squished the stress-ball.

«Anything elszze? Anything useful?» pressed on Beelzebub, clearly not happy by the poor result of their expedition.

«Some people went to see the flat, but Crowley wasn’t with them. We would have recognized him even in disguise.»

«Yes, they had a weird car with an Italian word on it.» Hastur privately enjoyed the language; array of colourful insults in various dialects aside, he and Ligur always had a soft spot for Venice. With its narrow, convoluted streets and _sottopassi_ full of shadows it was the perfect city for lurking. The giant rats and ever present dampness were just the icing on the cake.

«I said uszzeful,» dryly commented Beelzebub. But at their side, the girl perked up.

«Italian word? Was it “Portico”?»

«Maybe it was, so what?»

«It is a real estate agency,» she explained. «Crowley moved. He doesn’t live there anymore.»

«Bloody Hell,» swore Hastur. «Now we will have to chase him around like fools.»

«Have fun,» said Beelzebub, a few flies mockingly stomping on Hastur’s face.

The girl quickly flipped through her notebook, murmuring something under her breath that made Beelzebub sharply turn toward her.

«With the angel?!»

She shrugged. «Eric called them “partners in crime”. If he is still in London, Crowley will be with him.»

«Then find them,» ordered Beelzebub. «And don’t do anything szztupid. Just tell uszz where they are.»

«But you did a good job!» added the girl, even daring half a smile. «Spotting the agency car has been very useful, thank you.»

«Yes. Useful,» tentatively replied Ligur; getting complimented wasn’t something common in Hell.

Before closing the door behind him, Hastur threw a last look. The girl was bended toward Beelzebub, talking animately about something called “positive words of affirmation” that he has never heard of before. What surprised him was Beelzebub’s expression; instead of the usual bored frown, they looked like they were _listening_, chin propped on their hands and eyes fixed on the girl’s face.

Weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, a huge "thank you!" to anybody who take some time to comment and/or leave kudos, or simply to read this story.  
So, thank you! <3


	8. An unlucky name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just your usual espionage mission in Soho - or: Artemisia tried her hand at lurking and failed.

Artemisia had used three Excel tables so far, but she was still far from understanding when A.Z. Fell Books and Co. was supposed to be open. But then, when you are an immortal being with no need for money you can pretend to run your bookshop just when you feel inclined to.

After studying far too many reviews and looked at the bookshop from every possible angle on Google Maps, she was almost ready to give up and simply go to the shop and hope for the best. But then the ride on the underground to arrive to Soho was thirty to forty minutes from her flat, so it wasn’t exactly near.

Beside, Hastur and Ligur did such a nice job that it felt wrong to just waltz there without a plan. At first, Ligur tried to re-establish a contact that he had in Heaven – which didn’t really surprised Artemisia; there is always a back channel – but that telephone line has been disconnected. After this setback, they resorted to the old methods, according to Dagon’s retelling: they contacted the real estate agency and, after some “convincing negotiation”, got the address to where Crowley moved his things, which turned out to be an historical bookshop in Soho famous for its rare books and impressive collection of queer literature.

«Fuck it,» said Artemisia before opening Google Maps once more; if she’d have to wait for hours the least she could do was to find a nearby cafe with a view on the bookshop. Luckily, being Soho there was an ample choice; one of them even had a webcam that showed the tables outside it.

_Oh_, realized Artemisia. _Of course._

She clicked on the webcam icon, put it on full screen mode and cheered aloud: on the left, she could see the bookshop’s entrance and even a portion of the other side of the road, where a shiny black Bentley was parked.

At 09.35 am Artemisia closed the front door behind her, ready to catch the metro for her little trip to Soho; she checked the webcam on her phone, but the bookshop was still closed. Still, she was hopeful that in forty minutes something would change.

«Hello, nice suit!» she said to her next-door neighbour, Andrea, a friendly guy with Brazilian origins that lived alone. They often chatted during lift rides, and she appreciated that he usually took her side during residents’ meetings.

«Job interview at 10.30,» he said smoothing his trousers. «Apparently, they have a dress code.»

«Well, you managed to make beige works. I’d hire you just for that,» joked Artemisia, heading down the stairs. «And good luck!»

*** * ***

In the end, A.Z. Fell Books wasn’t open when she arrived in Soho. So, Artemisia sat outside a cafe with a book, ordered a slice of lemon meringue with a cup of jasmine tea, and waited. At 11.15 am, she finally spotted someone turning the sign on the door to “OPEN”.  
She paid, took some time to watch the shop's windows – because no one likes a customer that arrives one minute after the opening – and then entered the bookshop.

She expected many things, but not to almost trip on a giant red-bellied snake sprawled on the wooden floor. They stared at her with their bright yellow eyes; it was impossible, but Artemisia had the impression that they did it on purpose.

«Don’t do that,» she sighed, crouching down to gently stroke the snake’s head. «I could have hurt you.»

In their defence, the snake now looked almost guilty.

«Sorry, we are closed!» said someone from the back.

«Excuse me, but the sign said “open”?» tried Artemisia, getting up and stepping over the snake.

«Ah,» replied the voice.

Artemisia waited for a few minutes, but since no one came she started to browse the nearest shelf. Soon enough, it became her mission to understand the logic behind the book’s order, who appeared to be completely casual.

«This is not Dewey’s system,» she mumbled, scanning a section than spanned from a cookbook dated to XVth Century Lubecca, to a pamphlet on herbalism held together by spite and an old string.

«May I help you with something?»

Artemisia almost jumped; why didn’t she heard him approach?

«Oh, I was just browsing. I am looking into a PhD program, so I was searching for some references.»

«You are not interested in buying anything, then?» the man asked with palpable relief in his voice. _The reviews were right then_, mused Artemisia, studying the owner of A.Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop and infamous angel.  
From his curly, almost feathery, light hair to his velvet waistcoat and matching trousers, he exuded comfort and softness like a human-shaped ray of sunshine.  
And yet, Artemisia fancied she could see something more in his pale blue eyes; they were kind, of course, but also bright and alert.

_Not so soft as he looks._

«No, I just hoped to see them, really,» she said. «I have read a lot of positive reviews on your collection, Mister Fell.»

The angel all but beamed, trying – and failing – to contain his pride.

«What is the topic of your research?» he asked, more chatty now that he knew his books were safe.

«”Historical traumas and catharsis through art”,» recited Artemisia. «I am thinking of Artemisia Gentileschi, for example. Or Michelangelo.»

«Artemisia Lomi-Gentileschi!» exclaimed the angel, clasping his hands. «She was such a courageous woman, and so talented!»

«You make it sound like you knew her.»

«Indeed, Angel, tell us more.»

A tall, lanky ginger man wearing sunglasses all but draped himself over the angel. For some reason, the dark red shirt he was wearing reminded her of the snake.

Maybe when they called Crowley a snake the others demons were being literal. A _literal_ snake. Artemisia kind of wanted to apologize for almost tripping on him just to see how the demon would react.

«My dear, it was simply a figure of speech,» said Aziraphale with blatant fondness in his voice. «This lady was explaining to me her PhD proposal, and I may have gotten a little bit overly enthusiast.»

«Good old Academia,» mockingly said Crowley, turning his attention to Artemisia, who hoped that the three showers she took had been enough to scrub away any trace of Hell she may had on her.

«Elitist old Academia,» she retorted. «I’ll never get inside without a scholarship. Which is why I hoped to impress the commission with my knowledge of primary sources and critical literature alike.»

«Of course, of course,» said the angel. «Follow me, I may have something for you to cite.»

«Thank you, Mister Fell.»

Artemisia followed him in another section of the bookshop, more intimate and cosy than the front, which was rather impressive with its columns of marble. She even spotted a sofa and a writing desk made of a rich, warm wood.

«You can call me Aziraphale,» he said, hopping on a stool to reach a higher shelf. Crowley was closely behind, placing a steadying hand on his lower back.

He picked a slim book, recently bound with blue leather, and hesitated only for a moment before passing it to her.

«Are those the letters between Artemisia Gentileschi and Galileo Galilei?» asked Artemisia, quickly scanning the text. Her Italian was rusty, but she understood enough. «I thought they were lost...»

Crowley smiled mischievously while helping Aziraphale down the stool. «Care to tell us why you have them, Angel?»

«Well, it is a rather interesting story. When Galileo died his daughter asked me- someone-»

«Yeeep, she asked a private collector to preserve them for posterity, which his family did for generations. Historians are wild, aren’t they?» concluded Crowley.

«The wildest,» agreed Artemisia, eyes never leaving the book. She wondered if Aziraphale would allow her to snap a few photos of the most interesting passages; it took Artemisia a moment to remember that she wasn’t actually going to pursue a PhD. Not after being rejected the first time.

«As for methodology, I was thinking of queer and gender studies,» she said, returning the blue book. «I want to change perspective a little bit, especially in regard of Michelangelo’s life. His sexuality, as well as his friendship with Vittoria Colonna are rarely discussed.»

«You can say that...» agreed Crowley, as Aziraphale all but run to another shelf to grab a XIXth Century biography; at the time all the printed copies have been burned – except one – due to the rather frank discussion of the painter’s sexuality, but Aziraphale knew that it was a rather accurate work of historiography. After all, he was there when Michelangelo was writing poetry for Tommaso de’ Cavalieri.

«Angel, as much as I love watching you browse dusty books, we have a reservation at the Ritz,» reminded him Crowley. «And I have to pick up the new _Monstera Deliciosa_ from the plant guy down the road. Maybe this one will be more cooperative.»

«Don’t worry, I have plenty of time to think about the PhD,» said Artemisia. «I will return another day. Thank you again for the...inspiration. Good lunch!»

As she made for the door, she felt someone grab her by the elbow.

«We didn’t catch your name,» said Crowley. She felt he was studying her, but it was hard to tell with the dark sunglasses.

«Artemisia.»

The demon snorted. «Are you making it up?»

«My parents met in a museum, and they said they fell in love in front of “Judith and her Maidservant”, in Florence.»

«Your namesake suffered a lot. It’s kind of a bad omen.»

Artemisia shrugged. «I like it. Beside, it is also the name of a plant. And of a goddess.» She made a show of watching her phone; she wasn’t sure she liked where the conversation was going. «I hope you and your husband will have a nice day.»

She turned, smiling as Crowley emitted a definitely non-human sound.

*** * ***

Artemisia tried to not have any expectations or preconceived notions on “the traitors”, and yet they still managed to surprise her. So, while she had lunch on the subway, she tried to put her thoughts in a resemblance of order.

First of all, they both were rather kind and decent entities. Second, she would definitely return to the shop to browse some more amongst the shelves. Third and last, she was pretty sure that there was no secret weapon that Aziraphale and Crowley used against Heaven and Hell, except the palpable love they had for each other. It was a relief, because even if they actually did something, Artemisia would have kept it for herself.

But no one in Hell would believe that they survived through sheer power of love – and rightly so: if Artemisia hadn’t saw them she would have laughed too at the idea. So she guessed that Beelzebub and the others would keep spying on them trough her until they would find another problem to deal with.

Artemisia understood Beelzebub’s point of view too, in a way: they must have felt incredibly humiliated, and maybe even scared, after Crowley’s trial. What was supposed to be a reinforce of order after a terrible debacle turned into another failure, a _public_ one, that could have affected Beelzebub’s power and authority over Hell.

So, as she made her way to Hell, she guessed that after all she could just tell the truth. Even if they won’t like it.

*** * ***

«So, they didn’t do anything unusual?» asked Dagon, taking notes on a bullet journal open on her lap.

They had dragged her into a room usually used for presentation, guessed Artemisia from the projector on the desk and the rows of chairs, and then put a “DO NOT DISTURB, OR ELSE!!1” sign on the door.

«Not while I was there. If I didn’t know, I would have never thought they were occult entities.»

«Hope you didn’t tell them anything compromising,» said Ligur, who was slouched on a chair near Hastur.

«Just the indispensable to justify my presence. I told the angel that I wanted to look at some books for my PhD proposal – It is a human thing. This made him more chatty.»

«We like chatty! What did he say?» eagerly asked Dagon.

«He just spoke about books while Crowley hanged around him. He mentioned buying a new plant at some point, so I believe they truly moved together-»

«The PhD thing, you mentioned in your reszzume,» abruptly interrupted Beelzebub. They sat on a chair in front of all the others due to their status, just a few meters from the desk, and Artemisia.

«Yes, “Historical traumas” etcetera etcetera,» said Artemisia. «But at the time of our interview it seemed- well, a little bit insensitive to elaborate on that. Given your own story, I mean.»

«Why?» frowned Beelzebub. «We staged a Revolution and fell from grace to the depthszz of Hell after a bath of boiling sulphur, but we have no traumaszz.»

«Sure,» nodded Artemisia. «Do not worry, I am aware your mental health is _splendid_.»

Beelzebub squinted, clearly detecting her sarcasm but unsure of what do to about it.

«I didn’t said anything compromising, nor I mentioned my job,» continued Artemisia. «Although Crowley asked for my name.»

«And why didn’t you made one up?» asked Hastur. «There are plenty of good evil names.»

«Like Cthaat,» proposed Ligur. «Or Samantha.»

«What if I met someone who knows me? I have friends in Soho,» she replied, choosing to ignore both suggestions - even if Cthaat wasn’t that bad. «Beside, the best lies are the ones closer to the truth.»

Beelzebub nodded approvingly. «Did you noticed anything unuszzual?»

«Signs of rituals, potions brewing, glowing objects, spells in arcane languages...» proposed Dagon, reading from a list.

«No signs of ritual or spells, at least on visible surfaces. Or visible to human eyes.» Artemisia remembered the bottles of wines in the cabinet near the writing desk, but she doubted they counted as potions. «As for objects, the bookshop is pretty cluttered. Next time, I will focus on that. »

«Did they spoken with each other in another language perhaps? Hebrew, Ancient Greek...» pressed on Dagon, with just a hint of desperation creeping in her voice.

«Look,» said Artemisia, who was a little bit tired of circling around the only thing she was sure about. «To be completely honest, the only thing that you immediately notice about these two is that they love each other.»

«Demons can’t love,» immediately replied Dagon, although she couldn’t help but threw a side glance at Ligur and Hastur, who suddenly developed an interest in looking at the ceiling.

«Not an _angel_,» amended Ligur after a moment of silence, clearly satisfied to have found a loophole. Hastur nodded with enthusiasm.

«Well, clearly they are the exception to the rule,» said Artemisia, thinking that the rule was very stupid in any case. Supernatural powers and immortality aside, they were all just _people_. And people fell in love all the time. «I will keep an eye on them, if you wish so, but I doubt that it will be fruitful.»

«You shouldn’t have gone alone,» murmured Beelzebub. «You cannot feel occult forceszz as we do.»

«But wasn’t being an unassuming human the whole point?»

«I have changed my mind,» they said shortly. «Next time, a demon will come with you.»

«Alright, and who that would be? Eric? Dagon?»

«Me.»

_Ah_, thought Artemisia. _Perfect. _

How was she supposed to feel about this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- At some point it's clear that I just wanted to ramble about XVI/XVIIth Century historical figures, I am so sorry.  
\- I also apologize to anybody named Samatha; nothing personal, it was a random choice :P  
\- As usual, a huge thank you to anybody who reads/leaves kudos/comments etcc, you are all lovely! <3


	9. Acacia honey for flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Lord of the Flies and the random human girl team up to discover Aziraphale and Crowley darkest secrets. Or maybe not.  
Meanwhile, Ducal musings may occur.

«You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,» eventually said Artemisia after watching Beelzebub meticulously divide their fruit tart into tiny, tiny morsels.

All things considered, sitting in a cafe with their demonic boss has turned out to be rather pleasant experience in Artemisia’s opinion. If Hastur and Ligur both scoffed at the idea of using the cafe’s webcam to monitor the bookshop because “it ruined the craftsmanship of a good lurking”, Beelzebub approved its use.  
Truth be told, Artemisia expected them to appear once the bookshop opened instead of following her around Soho, but she guessed that even demons sometime wanted to change scenario a little bit.

«I need to passzz for a human,» mumbled Beelzebub before tasting a piece; Artemisia tried her hardest to not laugh at their sour expression.

«Raspberries are kind of tangy,» she admitted, reaching for the acacia honey jar and passing it to the demon. «Try this.»

With only a little grumbling, they all but smothered the sectioned tart with honey; after that, they suddenly didn’t look displeased anymore, even taking a few more bites. Artemisia looked outside the window, hiding a smile behind her teacup. As if she didn’t discretely checked the Wikipedia entry about flies and their habits as soon as they entered the cafe; she found their love for sweet flavours oddly endearing.

Yes, this..._thing_ could be pleasing after all.

«So, nine circles divided in sectors, which are called department only if there is a general secretariat with executive powers over their specific function,» repeated Artemisia, sketching a flow chart on a paper napkin. «Every circle has a council, which only has advisory powers, so every resolution must pass through you and the other high ranking demons, the Dark Council. Very imposing name, if I may say.»

«You may,» said Beelzebub, almost playfully, which surprised even themselves a little bit. But then, it is not every day that one has such a receptive and appreciative audience. Artemisia posed a question about what they did in their free time –which simply doesn’t exists – and from there it has been surprisingly easy to delve into a conversation about Hell’s organizational structure.

«It is a very efficient way of organizing such a complex...situation. It is remarkable that you manage to follow all of this.»

«Lot of paperwork,» they replied in a not very convincing nonchalant tone, staring intently at the foam of their still untouched cappuccino. It suddenly felt a little bit too hot, but they guessed that it has something to do with humans and their global warming thing.

«So, how are we supposed to detect such “magical artefacts” in the angel’s bookshop?» asked Artemisia after finishing her own tart. If Beelzebub noticed her skepticism, they said nothing. Maybe they were waiting for the opportunity to prove her wrong.

«I will send a few flieszzz with you,» they explained, reducing a blackberry to a pulp before eating it. «They will inspect the shop while you distract the traitorszz and report everything to me.»

«Couldn’t you use a disguise?» Artemisia remembered how Dagon mentioned something similar that they used to kidnap Crowley for his trial. Well, Dagon used the phrase “enthusiastically collected”, but to her it definitely sounded like an abduction.

«It is too risky. It works only for quick actionszz, otherwise they would start to notice something weird. Especially the angel.»

Artemisia hummed, watching as a small group of very confused tourists left the bookshop in a hurry.

«I will go, now it’s less crowded and- oh, hello,» said Artemisia as she spotted a pair of flies hovering from Beelzebub; they softly landed on her bag and hid behind the shoulder strap.

«One last thing. Here.» Artemisia left a book on the table; Beelzebub watched her with raised eyebrows, silently demanding an explanation.

«If you stay still and watch the void you may seem a little bit suspicious. With a book, at least you can pretend to read. Just ignore the underlines,» added Artemisia, feeling a little bit of embarrassment creeping on her. She quickly left the cafe, hoping it didn’t look to much like she was running away.

_Focused and productive, Artemisia, focused and productive._

*** * ***

One of the perks of being a demon is the inclination to multitasking. Or at least, one particular demon was rather good at it; this not only allowed Beelzebub to understand the intricate inner working of Hell, but also to read while checking Artemisia’s moves in the bookshop at the same time with another part of their mind. It was a hazy, imprecise vision, and rather tiring, and that was why they delegated the actual inspection to the flies. But it worked for obtaining a quick image of the situation.

(Beelzebub didn’t thought that maybe this was just a personal talent. If they were good at it, then all demons were, because all demons were essentially the same. This logical fallacy may have led to many misunderstanding among the denizens of Hell that could have been avoided with the introduction of revolutionary concepts such as “individuality” and “personal attitudes”.)

While Artemisia was led around the shop by the angel, deep into an explanation of Prague’s book market, the flies had departed from her bag to inspect the abundance of cabinets and desks, all covered in books, maps and scraps of paper. Despite some interesting discovery, like a small bronze statue of a naked man, which was surprising for a celestial being, there was no hint of any object of particular power. Disappointing, really.

In the meantime, Beelzebub leisurely browsed through the book, who was apparently an anthology of an author who spent a few years in prison for some nonsense and thus poured his soul and existential doubts into his late writings – basically a comedy.

They focused on the underlines, obviously.

> _I don’t regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. [...] I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup of wine. I went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. I lived on honeycomb._
> 
> _I wanted to eat of the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the world [...]_

_And this is why __humanity__ make temptation so easy_, thought Beelzebub. But then the name wasn’t familiar, so they guessed that the author still got into Heaven. What a waste.

The two flies hopped on a globe to rest a little bit over the Arctic. As the angel and Artemisia happily discussed, they thoroughly cleaned themselves from the dust, and listened.

«Are those tarots?» asked Artemisia while passing near a display cabinet. Despite the yellowed paper, the ink of the illustrations was still the deepest black; a miraculous restoration? She doubted that the pack held special powers, but it was worth a try. «They look lovely.»

«I bought them in France during- during an auction.»

«_Tarot de Marseille_, then. Have you ever tried to use them for a reading?»

«Well, maybe,» said the angel. He grinned, a special type of smile that Artemisia guessed would preceded an anecdote about Crowley. «I tried a few time to read them for Crowley, but I must admit that we weren’t exactly sober during those occasions.»

«But that’s the ideal mood,» joked Artemisia, peering among the shelves for a sign of the snake. «Is your husband not around today?»

«Oh, he is not my husband! I mean, not in the huma- traditional sense but- in a way-» he picked two heavy tomes, which he lifted as if they weighed nothing, to stare very hard at their covers.

«Do not worry, it was silly of me to presume,» quickly reassured him Artemisia, «You do not need to explain anything.»

She picked a random book and began reading it, just to give the angel some space. Wait, was that _The City of Ladies_ by Christine de Pizan?

Thus, Artemisa missed a rather fundamental action; Aziraphale put the books away and extracted a small, sleek box from his waistcoat pocket to gaze at it forlornly before staring some more at its content, and then put it back with a sigh.

The flies missed _nothing_, and buzzed happily. Rings, after all, have always been associated with secret powers, and a winged ouroboros? A symbol of eternity? Ever better.

At the cafe Beelzebub kept reading, scanning the pages to search for the next underlined quote.

> _Many man on their release carry their prison about with them..._

_Worse for them_, they thought quickly turning the incriminated page.  
And yet, the notion stayed with them like an itch under their skin. It sounded familiar, in an annoying way. But they weren’t carrying anything, didn’t they? Demons may have fallen after the Glorious Revolution, and sure, the scars from the boiling sulphur will never fade, and they awaited for centuries their chance for vindication for nothing... but it was _written_. Everything had a meaning.

But now, nothing was written anymore. There were no more prophecies or scripts to follow. The thought was somehow utterly liberating and utterly terrifying at the same time. Didn’t they tempted humanity into eating the apple? What did they gained from it? Could they have it too? But how? For them, there was nowhere else to go but deeper into Hell.

«We will never be releaszzed,» they said aloud, earning a few concerned stares from the nearby customers. The demon glared at the most nosey, who suddenly noticed that there was something wrong with their food, and ignored the others.

At the bookshop, Artemisia now had a newfound knowledge of XVth century early-feminist philosophy, but nothing that may hint at ritual, spells and what not. Well, worse for Hell. She waved at Aziraphale, discretely checked the flies – both on her bag again – and left the shop, quickly turning the corner to return to the caffee.

And almost crashed into Crowley.

She avoided him with a twirl, while the demon fumbled with something; another small box with something golden it in, noticed the flies. Two ringszzz!

«I am sorry! Are you alright?»

«Ek!» He said, quickly shoving the box into a far too small pocket of his jacket. «Be careful, phd girl!»

Artemisia made sure he entered the bookshop before crossing the street; hidden behind a few overflowing trash bins nearby the cafe, Beelzebub awaited for her. The flies immediately departed from Artemisia and buzzed around the demon’s ears, who nodded while listening attentively.

«It’s the ring!»

«_Excusez moi_?»

«They always carry a ring with them, so they must have some szzzecret power. This is how they tricked us, they switched the ringszzz!»

Artemisia cooed, a reaction that deeply confused Beelzebub.

«I do not think that ringzzz infused with arcane powers are something to be cooed at,» they said dryly, placing a particularly full-of-disdain emphasis on the word “cooed”.

«They are not mystical objects,» patiently explained Artemisia, although Beelzebub noticed a hint of eye-rolling. «They just want to propose. My bet is that they will do it at the same time.»

«What?»

«Well, the concept of marriage is probably insignificant to 6000 years old being,» continued Artemisia, «but I guess it must be a symbolic gesture for them, now that they are finally free. It is quite romantic.»

«No, it izzz not,» said Beelzebub, «I will prove it, and then we will steal the rings and they will be defenselesszzz.»

Artemisia openly groaned, throwing her head back.

«Please, I am already suffering of secondhand embarrassment,» she pleaded, «How can someone so...capable and driven and clever be so _blind_?»

«I need szzzomething! Anything!» Hissed back Beelzebub, «running Hell is a messzz, you know it now. I cannot afford to have even a szzingle demon doubting my rule.»

«Oh, I see.» Artemisia’s eyes now were gentler and terribly understanding; Beelzebub didn’t believe someone ever watched a demon like that. «This is not about punishing Crowley, you need to demonstrate to Hell that you are still in control, that you still have power.»

«Everybody saw him. I was afraid he would causzze a riot. I still am,» slowly said Beelzebub. They never dared to voice that thought before; it would be unseemly for a demon to admit _fear_, since it would leave them vulnerable and exposed. And yet, somehow they simply knew that Artemisia wouldn’t exploit it to her advantage.

«I imagined it was something like that. But we will find a way,» she said calmly, one hand curling around Beelzebub’s forearm and gently squeezing it. «We can try to follow your idea and see where it get us. At least this way nobody in Hell could complain that you aren’t doing enough.»

*** * ***

Artemisia walked back to the subway, and surprisingly Beelzebub followed, even if rather stiffly.  
The silence was definitely awkward, but she guessed that the demon may want some quiet after their outburst. Still, Artemisia struggled to find something, anything, useful that may have perspired from her conversation with Aziraphale. Not that a demon may want to be cheered up, of course, but this didn’t stopped her from trying.

Then, in an underpass a poster of the “National Gallery” caught her eye.

«The Museum! At some point Aziraphale mentioned a temporary exhibition about Rembrandt, I guess that he and Crowley will go.»

«And we will follow them,» nodded Beelzebub, their shoulders relaxing imperceptibly now that they had something akin to a plan. «And discover...szzomething.»

Artemisia hummed, absently toying with the belt of her coat.

«I can go alone, it is not a problem,» she said airily, staring at the underground schedule with great interest. «It must be rather boring following me around while you probably have more important things to do in Hell.»

«I would be a poor excuse of a ruler if Hell couldn’t szzurvive without me for a day,» replied Beelzebub. «We will go.»

They disappeared, leaving Artemisia alone at the platform to stare at the empty space.

Beelzebub, quick appearing at Tadfield aside, never stayed on Earth much. And for sure they never eat and read in a caffee furnished in Provencal style. So, the day has been very different from their usual hellish routine, which is why it took some time to certain words to be properly assimilated.

_«How can someone so...capable and driven and clever be so blind?»_

Beelzebub didn’t know which was worse; the compliments, or the fact that they _liked_ them.

*** * ***

Ligur had some time to make some sense of what happened during the last months – or at least to try to.

His loyalty to Hell was unsinkable as ever, of course, and came second only after the one towards Hastur. But dying tend to give people – demons included – a different outlook on your second life. Especially if you weren’t supposed to have one.

He got his body and his life and his rank back, but not his memories. Coherently, he doesn’t know how he arrived to the park near Crowley’s den. It is almost as if he wandered in the mist, barely conscious and half dreaming.

But now Ligur was wide awake. Even worse, he was _aware_.

Even if on the surface Hell has returned to its usual misery-fueled routine, Ligur felt a nervous energy running through it, like the stillness before the storm.  
It was the result of having millions - did they ever had a census? - of demons asking themselves the same question: and now what?

And if he looked deeper, for a moment – just a moment, mind you – he thought he could caught a glimpse of how different Hell could be.  
What did he told Hastur on that fated Saturday morning, just after discovering Crowley’s treachery?

_«If we win, we’ll have the lovely view and the fancy offices,»_

But why can’t they have them now? The view may require some work, a lot of it, but otherwise what’s the point of having a lot of idle demonic hands and damned souls around?  
Of another life – the one that burned to a cinder in the boiling sulphur – he has a vague, watercolour-like memory of shaping geodes of amethyst and rose quartz, whole caves of them, with colours that glittered even in the darkness.

Then a gelatinous glob of greenish _stuff_ dropped onto his shoulder and slid on his already ruined coat.

«Almost done, your disgrace!» Called the lesser demon balanced on top of a precariously placed ladder, wrapping layers after layers of duct tape around the leaking pipe.

But the harsh reality was another matter. Reality meant assisting the thrice-damned maintenance because he had “szzo many monthszz” of work to catch up with.

_So much for the lovely view_, he thought bitterly. Really, a duke with a bucket in hand was hardly dignified.

Ligur casually left both bucket and ladder and walked away; behind him, the demon swore as the ladder came crashing down.

_That_ was how Hell worked, and it could hardly change, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late update, but I am kind of dissatisfyed by how this chapter turned out. Still, at some point I guessed that editing it 382942 times wasn't particularly useful, so better to move on. 
> 
> As usual, a huge thank you to all the people that read/comment/leave kudos <3 !
> 
> PS. A virtual handshake with my congratulations to whoever will guess where the quotes come from :P


	10. Your own personal Sabbath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale and Crowley's date at the museum is the background of a (rather poor) espionage mission.

«Look, I’m just saying-» began Crowley, making a vague gesture around the painting. «I’m just saying, Rembrandt makes everybody look so murky.»

«Murky,» slowly repeated Aziraphale. «I can hear the art critics crying in despair.»

«But it’s true! I hated the portrait that he began for you. All brown and dark and...muddy. Terrible work.»

Aziraphale looked at the demon with a mildly disapproving glance. «Poor man! He was studying the light.»

«Well, he studied it wrong. You are always...not muddy looking, angel.» Another vague gesture, to mask the embarrassment. «I won’t be surprised if someone downstairs has his paintings. Between him and Goya, it seems their style.»

«They would be an improvement. From what I saw, Hell would surely benefit from a renovation.» Aziraphale waited for a moment before carefully speaking. «It seems they are truly leaving us alone, aren’t they?»

«None of your customers looked like a spy. Unless they got so desperate to hire middle aged men that are secretly looking for romance books and university students. But my former lot lack the imagination.»

«Well, Artemisia did make a lot of questions.»

«Who, phd girl? A demon? Pfff. She looks like she just waltzed out of one of those French movies that you made me watch during the 60’s.»

«The _Nouvelle Vague_ is not very demonic, isn’t it?» Aziraphale patted the demon’s arm, hand lingering on the crook of Crowley’s elbow as the gesture turned into a caress. «That rules out her, then.»

Aziraphale, complicit that terribly warm and soft and lingering hand, easily manoeuvred him around the museum. After all, if you were present during the creation of most work of arts displayed, you obtain the privilege of ignoring the museum’ suggestions in favour of simply strolling around. But after the fifth sudden sharp turn, Crowley started to get just a little bit suspicious.

«Angel, if you wanted to dance the waltz you just had to ask,» he said, not unkindly. Maybe he kind of hoped for a dance, alright? The fact that he couldn’t dance the waltz was a minor detail. «No need to turn around at every step.»

Aziraphale released his arm – _oh no, come back_, thought Crowley – to straighten his waistcoat.

«I just wanted to avoid the most- how to say? Propagandistic work of art,» he admitted, glancing at one of the paintings in the exhibition room.

Crowley could see Aziraphale’s point; as usual, the angel was depicted bathed in golden light as they stepped on an ugly, coiled creature painted in the darkest corner of the canvas, its yellow eyes fixed on the angel’s long spear.

«”The Archangel Michael banishing Evil, here represented in the form of a snake”,» dramatically read Crowley from the plaque. «Well, they got the constipated expression right. Don’t worry, Angel, I am not going to get upset over...what? Silly holy armours and spears? Tsk!»

*** * ***

«Bloody archangelszz with their holy armours and spearszzz,» mumbled Beelzebub, throwing a dark look at the painting. In the next months, a team of baffled curators would discover that its wooden support was completely rotten, and that the painting could not be displayed anymore. «Humanity really enjoy depicting them while they crush uszz.»

In Artemisia’s opinion Aziraphale did the right thing, twirling between one exposition’s room and another in order to avoid the umpteenth painting about triumphant random angels, but Crowley apparently had different ideas, so now she will have to deal with an upset Prince of Hell. Her first instinct had been to reach out for them, but if she has learnt something during the last six months, is that an upset demon needed their space and time to elaborate on their usually badly repressed emotions.

So, Artemisia calmly walked away from the painting, opting for a more subtle approach.

«You know, not everybody imagined angels to be so...majestic.»

Beelzebub looked at her with raised eyebrows, clearly unconvinced.

«I could count a hundred of paintingszz in this place alone,» they replied flatly.

«There was a man, in the XVIth Century. He was only a miller in a little village near the mountains, but he loved to read. He would buy new books from travelling merchants and then he would tell to all his fellows countrymen what he made of them,» she began, spying Beelzebub’s reaction; they appeared to have completely forgotten the painting. Mission accomplished. «He believed, he said, that in the beginning there was a great white vastness, like a sea of milk. From this, angels sprouted like worms and made the world.»

«Worms?» Beelzebub couldn’t help to smile a little, just a little, at the thought. «Like maggotszz.»

«Indeed,» said Artemisia, smiling in return. «No shining armour at all. We should tell Hastur too.»

«And the man?»

«They burned him, for all the things he said and couldn’t stop to.»

«Maybe they were tempted to do szzo,» mused Beelzebub. «Crowley invented the Szzpanish Inquisition, and they were evil enough to earn him a commendation.»

«Humanity is its own tempter and tormentor,» said Artemisia, her smile turning a little sad. «We imagine and create many beautiful things, only to destroy them.»

«Then what’s the point?»

«That first we made them, I believe.»

Beelzebub frowned, started to say something but then stomped away, and Artemisia had to run a little to keep up with them.

«Humanity doesn’t make any szzense,» they huffed.

«Oh, I know.»

«You are so complicated, and messzzy, and...you do so many unnecessary things!»

They were ranting at this point, and Artemisia let them.

«It waszz written! And then everything failed because of humanity, and you tell me that you don’t even need uszz to make your life miserable.» They stopped, staring at Artemisia with something akin to a questioning desperation in their eyes. «Why?»

«Every action have its consequences, with or without any tempting, and they rarely can be foreseen. There are many powers in the world, and many ways to live in it.» Artemisia tried her hardest to be eloquent; for some reason, she really wanted Beelzebub to understand, at least a part of it. «To me, the point is not to chose black or white, but to deny this division in the first place.»

«We can’t.»

«Who said that?»

Beelzebub leaned against the wall, looking somewhat even smaller than usual.

_We fell for this; for questioning, for asking, for daring to be something else than what we were made for. Could she understand? _They thought, biting their tongue. The urge of sharing their thoughts was there, the urge to try to see if she would listen.  
But they said nothing. Silence was safer.

«Come,» gently said Artemisia after a while. «We should look for Aziraphale and Crowley.»

After some wandering they found them in the next room, sat on a pink sofa in front of a bronze sculpture of some Greek deity – if Crowley’s random arrangement of limbs could have been called being “sit” anyway. There was nothing about them so far that hinted at some ritual of sort. Beelzebub hid behind the corner with an annoyed sigh.

When they checked again, Crowley and the angel were gone. The demon cursed under their breath, elbowing a few tourists out of their way.

«Come! They-»

But Artemisia wasn’t looking at them; instead she was studying a painting with a small frown, her hands tightly clasped behind her back. It was puzzling, since the painting depicted some women dancing in silly skirts; she looked more affected by this than other, more gruesome, works.

Beelzebub thought that they were being very stealthy, it was only a little glance, but Artemisia caught them staring.

«Degas’ dancers,» she said with a brief nod. «I supposed I got a little bit melancholic, looking at it. Sorry.»

She resumed walking, faster than before and in resolute silence.

«Melancholic?» tried Beelzebub after some minutes; curiosity and knowledge damned humanity, so it was only fair that a demon could feel them too, they rationalized.

Artemisia breathed deeply not once, but twice, before speaking.

«I was a dancer too,» she admitted, «I- I may have tried to get into the Royal Academy of Dance, when I moved here at nineteen years old. No, It was _why_ I moved. University was just plan B, to be honest. But I was rejected, obviously.»

She avoided looking at Beelzebub and steadily kept searching for Aziraphale and Crowley, peeking into the different rooms of the museum.

Beelzebub felt the unnatural urge to say something to make Artemisia less sad, which was quite absurd for a demon. But then, she did the same for them with the funny story of the heretical miller, so it was only fair. It was a matter of exchanging favours and nothing more.

«It iszz better this way, otherwise now you won’t be working for me – for uszz,» they said, clueless to how fond it sounded. But then, it was true.

«I guess so.»

Artemisia finally looked at them, this time with a proper smile; for some reason her eyes glimmered, and for some _other_ reason Beelzebub thought that they were prettier to look at than the old paintings.

«If you – if some demon will ever need dance lessons, you know who to call.»

«We don’t need any lesson! We are all excellent dancerszzz.»

«Why, you could have your own personal Sabbath,» laughed Artemisia before abruptly stopping, her laugh turning into a gasp.

Aziraphale and Crowley were just a few meters from them, standing in front of a drawing by Tintoretto. The angel was clearly in the middle of a passionate explanation, his eyes alight with mirth while he pointed at some detail, while Crowley was watching him instead. They were close enough that Artemisia could _feel_ the demon’s impossibly fond look. And this meant that they were _too _close because Crowley frowned and, with visible great regret, raised his head in their direction.

The next moment, Artemisia was dangling mid-air with Beelzebub’s arms tight around her waist.

«That waszz close,» they hissed. «Don’t squirm or I’ll drop you.»

While their actions contradicted their words – Beelzebub held her even tighter – Artemisia had no intention of being dropped from the many meters that separates the ceiling of the National Gallery from its floors. Still, she wanted to be a little bit more comfortable, as much as a dark corner of a roof could be called so. She bended her knees and planted her feet on the walls, then turned on her side, sliding her right arm behind Beelzebub’s neck for support. She clasped her other hand on the demon’s shoulder, hoping that they won’t mind it so much.

«What are you doing?!» they asked in an uncharacteristic high-pitched voice. Oh, so they minded.

«Keeping my barycentre low so I can avoid dangling mid air, thank you!»

From Artemisia’s point of view, now things were definitely better: she could still spot Aziraphale and Crowley, their heads huddled close while deep in conversation, and her position was definitely more comfortable. She also had the time to realize than if Beelzebub arms were occupied by, well, her, then how were they sticking to the walls?

Artemisia peeked over their shoulders and, despite the relative darkness, she could spot four long fly’s legs sprawling from Beelzebub’s back. The wings were also a lovely surprise; they were a little awkwardly bended into the wall’s corner, but still striking with their translucent green and purple hues. Artemisia itched to stroke them, but refrained; Beelzebub then would have dropped her for sure, and rightly so.

Still, her observation hasn’t gone unnoticed.

«Don’t look at the legszz too long if you are squeamishzz,» they said flatly, avoiding her eyes – truly an impressive feat considering the closeness.

«I am not. Really, there is nothing to be squeamish about.»

«I am a fly, they are supposed to be revolting.»

«Public bathrooms on trains are revolting. These are quite useful and practical, if you ask me.»

Artemisia hoped that Beelzebub believed her, for their remained stubbornly silent, staring down.

She couldn’t guess the inner turmoil of the demon; from Beelzebub’s point of view now things were definitely worse. So much worse.

They didn’t know if Crowley could have been able to see past the illusion that made them look like random tourists to other supernatural entities, but the angel surely would have sensed somethingdemonic, being them so close. Beelzebub just hoped that they have been quick enough to avoid that.

They also really, really hoped that Artemisia couldn’t notice how terribly affected they were by the closeness. It was incredibly foolish, annoying and unbecoming altogether. It also felt _good_, which was, if possible, even more troubling.   
Because now they could _feel_ her; from her chest, rising and lowering like the tide with every breath, to the curl of her lashes. Deeper inside, they could hear the beat of her heart, the rush of her blood, the warmness of her body pressed against theirs, colder and silent.

Beelzebub was holding the star, and it was overwhelming.

_Do not be foolish_, they sternly told themselves. _You are a demon, beauty is not mean__t__ for you. __Forget about it._

And yet, when they returned on the ground with another miracle, they find themselves reluctant to let go.

*** * ***

«Did you noticed it?» asked Aziraphale, looking far too calm and composed for Crowley’s tastes. «It merely a whiff, but it was-»

«Brimstone,» interrupted Crowley, eyes darting among the crowd of people amassed outside the National Gallery. «Hard to forget.»

His forked tongue peeked from his lips, tasting the air; his senses were assaulted by a myriad of smells, but nothing more demonic than a cheap cologne on a passing businessman.

«Whoever kept us company, they are gone.»

Aziraphale hummed pleasantly, hooking his arm with Crowley’s and leading him away from the crowd. He picked a route that Crowley recognized would lead to a small sushi bar near the river. Still, the demon couldn’t help to look behind his shoulders from time to time.

«My dear, you are still terribly tense,» eventually said Aziraphale.

«And you are far too calm, angel.»

«I noticed the brimstone anad the demonic energy, it was hard to miss. But there was also another scent. And I would have felt the usual feelings that accompany demons, wouldn’t I? Misery, or rage... but it was something else entirely,» wondered aloud Aziraphale. «They were not alone.»

«I doubt they were on a date. Best case scenario, we stumbled upon a temptation. Or-»

«Or they were spying on us,» completed Aziraphale. «Probably wondering if Museums had something to do with our unexpected resilience.»

«The power of art,» snorted Crowley. «They will be confused.»

«Let them be confused a little longer.»

The open door of the sushi bar welcomed them, but Aziraphale lingered at the entrance.

«I am surprised myself of not being more...skittish.» He wetted his lips nervously, but when he met Crowley’s gaze Aziraphale’s eyes bore an absolute certainty. «But there is the two of us, now. There is strength in that.»

Later that night Crowley would realize with a pained groan that _that_ would have been the perfect moment to drop on his knee, yes, literally – in the middle of a concrete sidewalk surrounded by pigeons. How could have he forgot about the ring, when he carried it everywhere?  
He mentally cursed whoever followed them at the museum for ruining their date before burying his nose among Aziraphale’s curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Will the author ever stop mentioning historical stuff? Experts say no. Also, the story of the miller (Menocchio) is a true story, see Ginzburg's "The Cheese and the Worms".  
\- As usual, a huge 'thank you' to whoever leave kudos and/or comment or simply read this story.
> 
> Ps. The temptation to name this chapter "Sexual awakening! At the museum" was strong but I refrained, yay.


	11. Feral feeling, swaying sound (But I don’t know what you want)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the reader will witness the hellish equivalent of an office party - and everything that comes with it.

«It is scientifically proven that warmer toned, halogen lights greatly improve productivity and attention.»

Dagon looked skeptical, and skipped to the bibliography to scrutinize it with a small pout.

«The white neons are here since their invention, and they work just fine. The flickering effect is very dramatic.»

«Maybe you could try them in a few offices and then compare their productivity with the others,» proposed Artemisia. She thought it was a good compromise; after all, it is wasn't easy to change habits after centuries. «Beside, there is a great deal at IKEA.»

Dagon grimaced at the mention of scandinavian design.

«They became controversial since Crowley inspired the instruction manuals for the assembling.»

«That’s incredibly evil.»

«Yes, Satan thought that too. Gave him a commendation, but I never figured why.»

«Nothing makes you want to murder someone like arguing over the correct way to assemble an _Elvarli._»

Dagon wrinkled her nose, still unconvinced. «But It sounds too easy! You are not exploiting the darkest recess of the human soul. It is not exactly craftmanship.»

Artemisia already noticed that some demons complained about that too – well, mostly Hastur and Ligur – mentioning some of Crowley’s best (or worse?) works; crashing telephone networks, the M25, selfies, Facebook... they often loudly stated that there was no true talent in cutting a few cables and moving pickets, which confirmed their belief in Crowley’s lack of attitude for his demonic job. But while the likes of Hastur and Ligur focused on tempting a single person, Crowley had planned nuisances on large scale that ended up eliciting more ill feelings in a weekend that decades of individual-based temptations.

So, at the end of the day it was better for humanity that now Crowley was retired, but Hell definitely didn’t need to know about that.

«You may try this silly theory of yours, but only in a few offices, » conceded Dagon, putting a few stamps on her report. She smiled – or more likely showed off her pointy teeth. «And only if you can convince the demons that work in there.»

«Of course,» she said sweetly, nodding. As if she didn’t ask already.

Now Artemisia just had to convince Dagon to put a stamp on her suggestion for a proper counselling office, but she felt she had proposed enough changes for one day.

She made for the door, but suddenly she found herself sat again in front of Dagon’s desk. The demon giggled.

«You could just have asked me to stay,» said Artemisia.

«More fun this way! I liked the element of surprise.» Dagon extracted a thin sheet of spotted parchment from a black envelope and put on the table before blindly choosing a plastic pen from a drawer. «This is a novelty- Eww!» The demon dropped the chewed pen, wiping the hand on her trousers. «And it is still wet! I swear to Satan that I am going to pull the teeth out of the miserable demon that chew on _all_ the pens. And it won’t be quick, oh no! It will be slow-»

«What is a novelty, exactly?» promptly asked Artemisia, hoping to stop Dagon’s recount of methods of torture before it got too graphic.

«Yes, yes. This is it.» Dagon waved the sheet around like a very sad flag. «Your official invite to the Annual Demonic Gathering, congratulations. 20th of March, don’t forget it.»

«Oh, the Spring Equinox! Very apt.»

«Really? I threw a dart at the calendar.» Dagon shrugged. «But it works, this way there is be barely a week to figure it out what to give.»

«Give?»

«You’ll get a name, and you must – emphasis on _must –_ give them something. The ugliest and more useless the better,» explained Dagon while carefully wrapping the pen with duct tape. Artemisia suspected that this won’t deter the unknown serial chewer.

«So if I will come I must have a proper gift-»

«No, you _must_ come. I just added you on the list,» Dagon scribbled something on another piece of parchment that didn’t even vaguely resembled her name. «Also, should I put a “plus one”?»

The demon’s tone was completely flat – neutral and professional – but Dagon’s pale eyes stared into Artemisia’s very soul, the hand holding the chewed pen frozen mid air. It seemed that the answer was important, for some unfathomable reason.

«No, it won’t be necessary,» slowly replied Artemisia, watching the demon taking notes with a far more cheerful attitude; she clearly answered correctly. «Beside, I can hardly drag a friend here.»

«Oh, we’d just erase their memory at the end of it.»

«Is it that easy?»

«No, not at all. But it’s always fun to try.» Dagon placed everything in an envelope and stapled it close. «The 20th, 17.00. Be punctual, or else.»

*** * ***

«The disco ball is really a nice touch.»

Eric took from Artemisia both the present and the bottle of non-alcoholic _Limoncello_ that she impulsively purchased while walking down the street. Hell and demons or not, she refused to arrive empty handed; it was a matter of principle, really.

«Crowley – no, I should say the Traitor – gave it to Lord Beelzebub during the ‘80s.» Eric studied the silver, sparkly surface, frowning in concentration. «I think it won in the “worst offering of the Annual Demonic Gathering” category the next year. Crowley was very, very pleased with himself.»

Artemisia didn’t mind it. Sure, the ball swayed suspiciously as if constantly on the verge of dropping on the demonic heads below, but the rainbow-coloured lights were pretty enough.

«Wait. “Worst offering” category? There are more?»

«Of course! There are “worst and best demonic pet”, “worst and best paperwork” – but no one cares about that – “worst and best temptation”,» Eric sighed ruefully. «Oh, I’d love to win that one. I never win anything.»

«I am sure you will, one day,» she said gently. «There are a lot of demons, maybe you are just unlucky.»

«Nah, there must be some kind of office that decides everything. But hey-» He suddenly perked up, looking far too mischievous for Artemisia’s taste. «You could put forward a good word for me, now that you are “close” to the higher spheres!»

«Why did you say “close” like that? I swear I could _hear_ the quotation marks-»

«You!»

All of Eric’s good humour melted like snow under the sun as a familiar, stern and definitely not pleased face approached them.

«You should be handing out the offerings, not-» they stopped at the sight of Artemisia, their pupils widening in recognition.

«Hello Supervisor 730,» Artemisia greeted them with a small wave of her hand. «It’s nice seeing you again without the burning sulphur in the background.»

«So nice, yay,» said Eric without at inch of enthusiasm. «I’ll go then, byeee!»

He scampered away, leaving Artemisia with a now less stern and more awkward Supervisor.

«So,» she began. «You definitely know more about this Gathering than me, what should I do? Or avoid to do?»

«Do not drink anything,» they replied with sincere urgency. «But if you must, smell it before.»

«I’m doomed then, I can’t smell most things. Really, if I manage to catch a whiff of brimstone when you lot appear on Earth is only because of its...intense scent.»

«Then don’t-»

«Oy! This is for you!» Eric screamed from the other side of the room, throwing a small object at the other demon. They caught it mid-air and promptly drop it on the ground.

«Scented soap. So funny,» they hissed through gritted teeth, glaring at Eric. «IF I stink it is because I am a highly trained demon that actually does something useful!»

The other demon shrugged. «I am just the messenger. Now, for Lord Dagon...»

Artemisia rose on her tiptoes to spy above the hellish crowd’s heads.

«I hope that she will like it.»

«What?! You got Lord Dagon? Well, if she doesn’t like the offering...» the Supervisor looked around for a way out. «Just run. Maybe I can hide you in the first circle until they don’t want to kill you anymore.»

«For once in my life I am pretty confident,» lied Artemisia as Eric threw the package in Dagon’s lap. «And I kept the receipt. Just in case.»

_If I manage to live long enough to explain to a demon how to return an item on Etsy_, glumly thought Artemisia. But then, the fountain pen looked so lovely; dark blue with a pattern of silver scales on the cap.

«Who gave this?!»

The Supervisor tried to pull her towards the exit, but Artemisia braced herself and stepped forward as the demons parted to let her through.

«It may be me,» she began tentatively. «I know it was supposed to be useless and ugly, but well...this one is made with a very hard type of plastic, impossible to chew on.»

Dagon stared at her, and then stared harder at the pen, turning it into her hands to see the scales catching the light.

«Of course, I have the receipt if you don’t like it,» Artemisia added quickly.

«No- no! It is- it is acceptable,» eventually said Dagon in an uncharacteristic wobbly voice, quickly turning her back on Artemisia. Hastur eagerly leaned forward, gaping a the other demon’s reaction.

«Are you crying?! For real-» His voice turned into a shrill cry as he bended over in pain; after all, Dagon’s pointy elbow being shoved between his ribs must have hurt.

«I accept the offering,» said Dagon, her voice rising to cover Hastur’s wailings. «And I can see that the nib is sharp enough to stab every demon that will fail to delivertheir monthly report in due time. Is that correct?»

«Well, sharp enough for an eyeball, I guess?»

Sadly, the “description” section on Etsy did not cover that particular scenario.

«Excellent suggestion! Have you heard? Good, you may continue.»

The demons collectively sighed in relief before resuming their previous activities, which included: swaying completely out of time with the music that played from two ancient speakers (Artemisia recognized a spectacularly bad cover of “Dancing Queen” played on a flute), complaining about the things they received, boasting about probably imaginary temptations, and more complaints but this time while doings shots.

«In the end you won’t need to hide,» the Supervisor had a puzzled expression in their dark eyes. «Did you bribed Lord Dagon beforehand?»

«No, no. I just...I guess I just observed,» replied Artemisia smiling, as all the tension finally left her. Really, who knew gift-giving could be so stressful.

«Ah, the Disposable Demon left this for you,» they handed her a small brown roll encased in plastic. «They did not say from whom it was.»

«Adhesive flypaper; guaranteed to catch every small insect, especially domestic flies,» read aloud Artemisia from the label. «Well, it could have been worse. Although I’m not sure why they picked this.»

«It must be because of the...speculations in the gossip column. But don’t worry,» they added quickly. «We, in the first circle, never read “The Infernal Times”.»

«What “speculations”? And how do you know about them if you claim to not read the newspaper?»

The demon toyed with a few strands of hair that escaped from their long braid.

«Just...voices. Lower demons need something to keep themselves occupied, but it’s nothing- Oh! There is a fight near the drinks table! Let’s make some bets!»

*** * * **

Yes, reusing the Place of Trials built for Crowley had been an excellent idea, Beelzebub mentally praised themselves as they surveilled the crowd at the feet of their dais – dais that they’ve decided to keep as a not-so-casual reminder of who was in charge.

They squinted, trying to subtly lean forward to scan among the demons for a familiar face.

«The last time I checked Artemisia was entertaining some demons from the third circle with a modern reinterpretation of paganism.» Dagon casually commented as she swirled the soapy water in her plastic cup, watching the iridescent bubbles before taking a sip. «It was quite convincing.»

«They would have burn’d her at the stake a few centuries ago,» said Ligur, quite unable to hide the hint of fondness in his voice after the fifth drink.

Hastur arrived with a glass in each hand, both filled to the brink with something that probably shouldn’t have been on fire, and carefully avoided passing within Dagon’s elbows reach.

«Cheeers!»

«No, no! No cheerszz!» Beelzebub snapped their fingers and the drinks evaporated with a sad whiff of smoke. Both Hastur and his frog spot the same, deep, disappointed frown. «You can destroy your corporation _after_ we concluded this farce. Now you will be focuszzed and productive.»

«What’s the point? It’s not like I have to talk,» grumbled the demon, sliding down in his chair.

«Better not,» agreed Dagon; the demon climbed on the top of her chair and pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket. «Attention! Attention!»

«Make it quick,» hissed Beelzebub, massaging their forehead; between the drinks and the unusual (and absolutely hellish) soundtrack they could feel the beginning of a headache.

«The procedure is always the same,» retorted Dagon. «Now, for the “best and worst discorporation” category...»

Dagon did not, in fact, made it quick. At all.

If the main categories managed to evoke a vague sense of interest, the last ones were so utterly insignificant that most demons were probably wishing for a bath of holy water. It also helped that there was no prize at all for the winners except for, as Dagon’s memos put it, “the eternal glory and satisfaction to be found in serving Hell’s cause, which is a reward in itself”.

«And finally the most important category, “worst and best paperwork”,» announced Dagon, visibly perking up. «Worst: Duke Hastur! 75.3% of the reports were basically illegible due to stains of unknown nature-»

«’Twas blood,» explained Ligur, ever helpful.

«-and doodles that should clarify the dynamic of the temptations but only made everything more confusing. Now,» Dagon cleared her throat. «Best paperwork: Art- human girl with the weird name; for being capable of adding footnotes without messing up the whole page layout.»

Artemisia discretely retreated to the back rows, only to be suddenly flanked by two looming figures.

«Look at her, trying to run away,» sighed Ligur.

«How rude, when you should celebrate with us,»added Hastur, somewhat managing to make the word “celebrate” sounds menacing.

«You can’t take her away!» blurted the Supervisor, even though Hastur’s expression promised them a painful discorporation. «I mean, you are a Duke, of course that you can. But...in this room there is no one from my circle. Please, I don’t know anyone else.»

«Worse for you,» said Ligur, pulling Artemisia away from the other demon. «Come on, you won. You should make a toast.»

«No, wait! I’m lightweight-»

«Do it for Hastur,» interrupted Ligur, undeterred. «You wouldn’t want to make him _sad_, do you? Or worse, angry.»

«-ridiculously lightweight! I get very-»

What Artemisia wanted to say was: I get very intense, and thus very embarrassing.

But speaking became difficult since Hastur pinched her nose, pulling her head back as Ligur pressed the glass against her mouth; she drank what happened to be old, flat champagne that probably stayed in some dusty corner of Hell for the past century.

«Ohhh! Was that so difficult?» said Hastur, empting his own glass of something in one swing.

Artemisia giggled.

«Since you are here,» she began with suspicious enthusiasm. «We never properly discussed the psychological implications of what happened during the whole... ending times thingy. Or just your mental health as a whole because let’s face it, it is as stable as a wet breadstick-»

*** * ***

After the second disembowelment near the drinks table, Beelzebub decided to wrap up the evening. But where were Hastur and Ligur when you need them to scare people away? Well, apparently the answer were: in a corner, both hugging bottles of alcohol like lifesavers as Artemisia energetically gesticulated.

«There is nothing wrong with not understanding subtext, you know. I mean, you are probably concerned about lower demons laughing about you, right?»

Hastur gave the tiniest nod.

«Well, that’s legit! And quite common, by the way. But maaaybe violence is not always the best way to sort things out. And the hassle of getting blood stains out of clothes? – oh, hello!» Artemisia greeted them with a clearly intoxicated smile.

«It’s their fault!» blurted another demon, someone that worked with the burning sulphur, judging from the yellow eyes and discoloured skin, pointing at Hastur and Ligur. «She told them she was lightweight!»

«You slimy little spy –» hissed Ligur.

«Szztop. Both of you,» they ordered. «I will handle it. And you will be uszzeful for once and convince all these demonszz to go away.»

Artemisia let herself be led away with no complains; to do so, Beelzebub placed a hand on her lower back, but in a very detached and professional way, they told themselves. Beside, soon enough they would be done with the whole evening – just a snap of fingers.

But instead of being outside her flat, they find themselves in a deserted park.

Occult entities or not, whatever Beelzebub drank during the “party” – was it vodka? Or bleach? they all tasted the same – had impacted their abilities.

Artemisia looked at her surrounding, blinking rapidly and blissfully unaware of the demon’s botched attempt at teleportation.

«Why Ravenscourt again? We did what, 100 meters?»

«You need fresh air,» they replied quickly, maybe too quickly to be convincing. «Szzo, we will have to walk.»

«Worry not, _ma petite mouche. _I love moving legs. Beside, the river is close, and I live there,» she said, sounding far too cheerful about the whole inconvenient situation. Beelzebub tried to translate the phrase, but the effort only made their head hurt. Yes, they definitely drank bleach.

Luckily, a kind-of-drunk Artemisia proved to be easily manageable – except random ballet moves that Beelzebub couldn’t have understood even sober. The demon also discovered that apparently a little bit of alcohol was all it took to make her usual secretiveness evaporate.

«I am not szzaying that I don’t believe you, but I don’t.»

«It’s true! Your gathering thingy reminded me a lot of a high school reunion,» said Artemisia, eyeing a low brick wall and pondering if she could walk on top of it. Nah, another day. «But you are less annoying. Oh, I think I recognize that condo! Come!»

As if it was nothing, she took the demon arm in arm to drag them across the street.

«I refuse to believe that szzmall humans could be worszze than demons.»

«They are,» insisted Artemisia. «And uuugh! They asked so many questions! Yes, my mother is from Jugoslavija, not fucking Mars!»

«That iszz not a real country.»

«Not since...years. But it fits.» She patted their arm amicably with her free hand, but suddenly looked terribly serious. «I am always out of water. The fish, I mean. The fish out of water.»

«It iszz not bad. You’d make a good fish.»

Artemisia gave them a small but sincere smile; her hand still lingered on their arm, which made Beelzebub’s newly discovered stomach do a weird thing.

«_Hvala, mala muha_. You are right, it is nice. Better than being called the slavic bitch. High school can be terrible.» She shrugged, as if it were something that happened to somebody else. Beelzebub swallowed bile. Clearly a side effect of the drink.

«I may need nameszz.»

«No, no, you don’t!»

«Someone must take revenge,» insisted Beelzebub. «Because I am szzure you didn’t.»

«Oh but I thought of it!» proudly replied Artemisia. «Not as good as a demon. But maybe I can be one. No, well, not a true one. But like, an honorary demon. Ah yes, that’s my flat!»

They followed her, stunned, while everything that Beelzebub may have thought of answering died on their tongue. Because wasn’t that _a_ thought? No, it was _the_ though. The though that Beelzebub liked to indulge when they were in a slightly less annoyed mood – and thus prone to _imagine things – _was: it was really a pity that Artemisia couldn’t be a proper demon. Not that Beelzebub wished the Fall on her, never on her, but maybe there was a loophole, hidden somewhere. This way, she would stay around and they would have all the time to-

To do _what_? Here, Beelzebub’s imagination failed.

(On this aspect Crowley was partially wrong about his former colleagues; it was not like demons were incapable of imagination, they simply decided to avoid it. Because when you start to imagine things – well, it is really hard to stop. And the next logical step is _wanting_, at least a little bit, even if you can’t have what you crave. Imagination can be pain, when you are in Hell.)

«No, not aszz good as a demon,» they eventually replied, following her up the stairs – only to the third floor, luckily.

Artemisia stared at them over her shoulder with a small displeased frown, as if she failed some kind of test.

«Is it because I am too nice?»

«You are not “nice”. Nice is a four-letter-word that only meanszz you are good at pretending. No, you are _kind_.» Beelzebub sighed, as if the concept was somehow concerning. «Terribly kind.»

Artemisia seemed to ponder on this while struggling with the concept of the keyhole, and when the door opened she lingered on its threshold. With a movement far too smooth for someone slightly drunk, she turned towards the demon. Her hands flew to rest on their shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles as if looking for the skin hidden under all the layers.

«And is it so terrifying, the thought that someone may be kind to you?»

_Yes, yes! More than anything. We are all accustomed to pain, but this?_

«You cannot posszzibly want that. No one ever did. No one should.»

Artemisia let them go and stepped back, all the warmth leaving with her.

«You’d be surprised by the things that I want.»

And with that, she closed the front door on the demon’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically 3K+ words of pure Demonic Nonsense; this is my fourth week of quarantine, and I hope that this (very, very silly) chapter will brighten a litte bit the mood of the random reader just as it did with mine while I was writing it.
> 
> So, enjoy! (Hopefully).
> 
> PS. As usual, a huge thank you to all the people that read/comment/leave kudos!


	12. A sudden and terrible clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our characters react to their emotional epiphanies with various level of denial - stretching, stress baking and stress eating may occur. And while Artemisia battles with her demons (literally), paperwork proves to be relevant once more.

In hindsight, it was all Hastur’s fault. She told him she was ridiculously lightweight, more than once, but no! He had to make her drink!

_ And now I will have to deal with the co__nsequences_, Artemisia surly realized as she dried her hair.

But then, it’s not like she tried to kill – well, discorporate – anyone. She probably gave more compliments than a demon could take in one setting, but that was it. And sure, maybe she overshared a little while talking with Beelzebub, but they had been acting weird too. They all drank too much, and that was it.

_But was it?_

Admittedly, she said a few compromising things. How was it? You’d be surprised by the things that I want? Ugh, terrible.  
How could she let it slip her masterly concealed fondness? Because there was some fondness and maybe-

«Oh no, _ oh no. _ Don’t you dare,» she said sternly to a nearby pan, having relocated to the kitchen. Somehow, it looked judgy for being an inanimate object. «I don’t need feelings, I really don’t-»

_ Stretching! _ She thought triumphantly. After all, it was difficult to dwell on embarrassing events while one was busy making their muscles screams.  
But not even a well practised sequence of plié à quart- plié à demi- grand plié managed to steer away her thoughts from the last night. Did she say something inappropriate even for a demon’s standards? _ That _ phrase was corny, but not too allusive, right?  
But then she also touched them which was definitely inappropriate. She clearly overstepped some boundary, and being almost drunk wasn’t an excuse. An explanation, but not an excuse.

«I’ll have to apologize,» she sighed while bending forward to touch the floor. «What should I say?»

She wanted to make things better, not even more awkward. Although she doubted that there was a way to sanitize the fact that, somewhere along the line, she may have developed a tiiiny crush on her boss. Whom was, incidentally, a demon – but for some reason that didn’t bother her as much as the “boss” part.  
Said crush so far had been carefully repressed by her well-trained subconscious, but apparently the hellish version of an office party was all it took for it to break free and cause ruckus.

And now Artemisia was re-evaluating under a new light every single interactions that she shared with Beelzebub.

Their little trips on Earth, for example. They didn’t discover anything remotely useful about Crowley and Aziraphale, but they surely hanged around and discussed a lot about _ stuff _. And it’s not like Artemisia liked being held while hanging from a museum’s ceiling but-

Artemisia snapped from her reverie with a swear.

«They were like _ dates _,» she moaned. «Fucking dates!»

Artemisia didn’t really know what to do with her newfound clarity. After all, nothing good could come from it; Beelzebub was the hellish equivalent of a CEO, while she was the girl from the call-center, no matter how good she was at filling paperwork.

In these times of hardship, Artemisia returned to an ancient and powerful remedy: stress-baking with anything edible that it was in her cupboard. A foolproof plan that resulted in definitely far more baked goods that she could store in her refrigerator, considering how blueberry muffins now covered every surface available in her kitchen.

«Well, time for socializing.»

Andrea was her favourite next-door neighbour, so he was the logical choice if she had to share food with someone else. He was also the one who defended her when Mrs Rose Fillow from the second floor accused Artemisia of trying to seduce her 80 years old husband with her “foreign allure”. Artemisia at the time diffused the tension with a joke about her being gay, which in hindsight had been a bad move since dear Mrs Rose then threw a rosary at her.

That was why she was almost willing to forget that time he blasted the entire “Sound of Music” soundtrack. Almost.

Andrea’s eyes lighted up at the sight of the muffins, but he immediately frowned at her bare feet.

«Here, use these,» he said presenting her a pair of fluffy light blue slippers. «And wash your hands before eating.»

After having exterminated enough germs for Andrea’s taste, she was allowed to sit on his white couch. As he prepared a mocha and collected small plates and napkins, he happily recounted how well his job interview went. _ Of course _ they were going to talk about work. But as long as it was Andrea’s work it was fine. Totally fine.

«So, at home today?»

«They told me to stay at home from Friday to Sunday, since “they are all days of rest in different versions of Her words”,» he explained while carefully pouring the hot coffee.

«A...long weekend of monotheism? They seems eccentric.»

«My bosses are a little hard to describe. Ineffable, they would say,» for some reason, Andrea chuckled as he stirred his cup. «They went through some hard times lately, since a big...investment didn’t turn out as they expected. Oh, and they have a deep rivalry with another company, but historically they had the upper hand, so they can be very judgemental and self-righteous. I am working on it.»

«Good luck on getting under their skin, then.» Artemisia wasn’t sure why, but it sounded slightly familiar. «And I think your degree will help.»

«Science of education and development? Sure,» snorted Andrea. «I studied to become a preschool teacher. Small people in diapers, you know, not adults in pristine and perfectly tailored suits. Great offices though, so much better than the standard educational environment.»

«Well, from what I’ve understood they probably need to get in touch with their inner child. Have you tried with stickers?»

«Not yet,» replied Andrea, although he seemed to consider it for a moment. «Currently I am working toward establishing a more honest communication. Not everybody like it, or like me, but the bosses...they seems to listen, or at least they are very good at pretending to.»

«I hope they aren’t,» drily said Artemisia. «So, what’s the main issue?»

«Excessive control to compensate for vulnerabilities that they do not want to admit having. The, err, Chief Administrator has been quiet for a long time. Really long time. I think that for the first time they are wondering if she still approves of the company.» A pause. «Yours?»

«A long neglected trauma that led to a complicate relationship with their own identity. Recently they have experienced a...little apocalypse of their own, which unravelled a lot of certainties,» explained Artemisia. Andrea nodded thoughtfully while chewing.

«They should reinvent themselves. Hard stuff.»

«Very,» agreed Artemisia. «But I don’t think that they are a lost cause. I have hope.»

«And how are the bosses?» Andrea asked casually. «Do you have a dress code too?»

_There we go. _But clothes were a relatively safe topic, right?

«Thankfully it’s not beige. No, mine are more casual,» said Artemisia, thinking of that time she saw a demon mending a threadbare sleeve with a staple gun. «But some wear nice suits too.»

Alright, with “some” she meant Beelzebub, but it was a completely objective statement! Maybe their jacket was slightly oversized and torn at the hems, but the fishnet socks were endearing, and the trousers fit them really nicely-  
She grabbed her cup and emptied it in one swing.

«Are you thirsty?» innocently asked Andrea.

«No!» replied Artemisia with far more passion than Brazilian coffee could inspire. «But thank you,» she added more calmly. Still, the topic was quickly becoming uncomfortable. «But let’s forget about work! I was thinking of trying a new Chilean place in Soho, next Friday. You could come too.»

Andrea absently hummed as he wiped the coffee table with a clean napkin. «Will Jessica be there too? You know how I feel about Business students...»

*** * ***

It seemed to Artemisia that she stressed over nothing; for the next weeks she was constantly requested from one corner of Hell to the other, and so it had been impossible to find Beelzebub and apologize. Most of the time it was to act as some sort of mediator between fighting demons, but once Ella and Edda managed to drag her to the department where specialized demons looked after the hell hounds. Sadly she had to wait outside – the hounds could smell blood, and it was definitely the wrong time of the month – which was annoying, since she had a lot of questions about them.

Overall, she didn’t saw much of the “higher spheres”, as Eric called them, untilone day she got a surprise visit at her office. Not that anyone gave it to her, of course; she simply found a slightly nicer empty room, dusted the various (and improbable) furnitures, and sticked a post-it on the door with her name and a “knock before entering” request.

Which Hastur and Ligur obviously ignored.

«We heard things about you,» began Ligur, circling her. «About what you do...»

«What I do?»

«The _therapee_ thing,» explained Hastur.

«Therapy, yes. Well,» she mentally rated in order of probability all the terrible things that could happen. It was quite a long list. «What do you want to know about it?»

«We know _all_ about it,» said Hastur, while Ligur made approving noises in the background. «Demons complain and you have to listen to them.»

«That’s...an interesting way to describe it. But if you want to try, we should set some rules before starting.»

«Rules,» slowly repeated the demon. His frog scratched her tiny head, clearly confused by the concept.

«I picked the wrong word,» quickly amended Artemisia. «More like “boundaries”. I’d love to avoid the whole thing that happened at the Gathering last month.»

Ligur stopped his circling to grab her by the shoulders.

«After you left? What happened? You must tell us the details.»

«Well-»

«He misses all the gossip that the wank-wings used to tell us,» interrupted Hastur. «The column on the paper is not enough for him.»

«We are terribly behind in Dagon’s betting pool!» hissed Ligur. «A junior demon bested me, a junior!»

«Betting pool?» Artemisia suspected that she wouldn’t like the answer.

«Nothing! Ahaha, so fun,» said Hastur with a shrill and extremely fake laugh. «Now, what did you wanted to bound?»

«Yes, boundaries. Not murdering me will be a good start,» she replied. «Also, you have one hour, starting now.»

One hour was more than enough to make Artemisia understand that she will have to adjust her approach. While both Hastur and Ligur had no reserve on complaining over pretty much anything, any attempt to get to know more of their inner turmoils was met with mumblings and threatening stares of various levels of efficacy.

«This was interesting,» began Artemisia after the timer on her phone went off. «I’d love to elaborate on the theme of revenge...»

«I know what you want to say,» interrupted Hastur with a scoff. «”Revenge is useless and we should forgive and forget like idiots”,» he said in a mockingly high-pitched voice.

«Actually, before being interrupted with an impression that didn’t sound like me _ at all _, I wanted to say that sometimes revenge is, in fact, a good catharsis.»

Both the Dukes stopped their snickering to lean closer, looking for the first time actually interested in what she was saying.

«Go on,» said Ligur.

«I mean, tearing apart with our bare hands whoever hurt us would be very satisfying-»

«Oh, I’d like that,» sighed Hastur, closing his eyes to better envision the scene. His frog croaked happily.

«-but is this the case?»

«And now you have ruined it,» frowned Hastur. «You have one minute to reconsider. It is a generous offer.»

«If going after Crowley is out of question, and it is because Bee- Lord Beelzebub said so,» she explained. «Then your rage is...unproductive, like a stone that you cannot lift. You are only hurting yourself with it.»

_ And probably other _ _ people _ _ too _, she mentally added.

Artemisia expected Hastur to, at the very least, try to set something on fire; hopefully not her. Instead the demon simply stared, his black eyes unreadable.

«You don’t know what you are talking about,» he eventually said, shaking his head.

Artemisia shrugged; she had been angry for most of her life, but she guessed that for demons was different. They had centuries to let it stew, to being with. So she said nothing, letting an awkward silence fall.

«But I do feel slightly less annoyed,» admitted Ligur after a while. Hastur grunted before crushing his cigarette on the desk.

«Enough with this chitchat,» he said briskly. «Did I pass?»

«Oh, there aren’t good or bad grades in therapy. You showed up, and that’s already great,» replied Artemisia. «But I think that I’ll have to come up with something more immediate to record your feel- errr, impressions.»

«If you are telling me to write a diary like some schoolgirl we’ll have to rethink the “not murdering you” part.»

«Nothing of the sort! I was thinking of something more modern, even though here technology doesn’t work very well,» sighed Artemisia. «It’s hardly fair that I won ‘Best paperwork’ when you lot have to use a typewriter.»

«’Fair’! Have you heard?» Hastur snorted while elbowing his companion. «Nobody cares about that. And I won “best discorporation”,» he bragged, as if being burned alive could be an accomplishment instead of a very much traumatic experience.

«You’ve earned it,» agreed Ligur in a tone that made Artemisia think to leave them alone for a few hours. «But I’m so angry that now we will never surpass Crowley’s number of commendations.»

«He really outdid himself with the Spanish stuff,» said Hastur. «And then there was his stupid road...»

«The Spanish Inquisition? I’ve heard that story, and it was all Isabella of Castile and Ferdinando of Aragon, in... Wait,» Artemisia fished her phone out of her pocket and quickly tapped on the screen before rising her arm; she discovered months prior that the higher the phone the higher was the chance of getting a decent connection. «I need to check the date.»

«What?»

«Oh, finally. 1478!» She exclaimed triumphantly. «Clearly a method to strengthen the monarchy’s control over the newly unified kingdoms, by the way.»

«What?»

*** * ***

Outside Beelzebub’s office, a small crowd of demons waiting for an audience had been staring to the closed door for at least half an hour.  
Inside, said demon was currently occupied munching a dolphin’s head; for all their faults, they had to admit that humanity did a good (bad?) thing creating marshmallows, even if Beelzebub thought that shaping sweets like animals was unnecessary.

«Really unnecesszzary,» they mumbled. They swallowed and angrily started to chew a parrot.

Just like walking arm in arm, as if strolling around with a demon at her side was a common occurrence for Artemisia. And then there was that scene at her doorstep.  
One thing was a quick, amicable touch meant to comfort – which was already unbelievable from a demonic point of view, but Beelzebub could comprehend that, humanity being humanity and blablabla. They could also understand, with a truly heroic effort, her nonchalance at being held by them at the museum; after all, it was either that or falling.  
But Artemisia genuinely wanting to touch _them_? And maybe, maybe, wanting them to touch _her_? Unthinkable.

Beelzebub’s feelings had always been neatly catalogued in different compartments such as: annoyance, mild amusement, strong annoyance, disdain, anxiety (which also had a giant metaphorical “DO NOT OPEN” label on it), boredom, disdain again but better concealed, and others of the same nature. So, they knew their feelings.  
Or at least they used to, because of course Artemisia had to be terribly human about it and mess everything up. Forget the labels and compartments, now they were all happily swimming together in a buzzing pool of _stuff_, over which reigned supreme a foreign and unnamed feeling that Beelzebub tried really hard not to acknowledge.

It was getting increasingly difficult, because now it was clear that they _wanted_. But what?

«There iszz no point in it,» the demon said loudly to no one – although it must be said that their flies buzzed disapprovingly.

One thing was clear: they didn’t want to avoid her, quite the contrary, but it was the most sensible path, and Beelzebub prided themselves on being one of the very few sensible demons. All their interactions from now on would be limited to public occasions with lots of witnesses to remind them both of the proper way to behave.

_ What a g__reat _ _ plan _, they thought bitterly.

Now they just needed to avoid being left alone with her for extended periods of time in relatively small spaces. Easy.

A commotion outside their door, loud enough to be both annoying and concerning, roused them. Beelzebub quickly shoved the marshmallows in a drawer and raised, making sure to drag the chair’s metal legs on the concrete floor to produce an appropriate grating sound.

«What-»

Hastur, having successfully shoved out of his way every other demons waiting for an audience, slammed the door open.

«He is a fraud! I knew it, I fucking knew it!»

Beelzebub frowned. «Thiszz is not helpful. That could be anybody.»

«Crowley,» said Hastur, slamming Artemisia’s phone on the desk. «It is all written here, the proof of his treachery-»

«Wikipedia,» read Beelzebub aloud. «What am I supposed to do with thiszz?»

«There is a thing... Oi girl!» screamed Hastur. «What’s the thing name again?»

Artemisia, whom so far successfully hid among the demons outside, peeked from the threshold. The flies started to buzz, _ of course _ they did, and Beelzebub had to wave away the most enthusiastic. Traitors.

«Historiography?» she proposed.

«That one,» confirmed Hastur with a nod. «Humans wrote tons of books on their history, and Crowley is not even in the last page’s footnotes.»

«And why should I care?»

«He has a lot of commendations for _ nothing, _» emphasized Hastur. «And that stuff matters.»

Beelzebub hummed; while they didn’t appreciate being rudely interrupted while brooding – not that they would ever use that adjective – Hastur had a point. After all, it was the centuries-long string of Crowley’s commendations that convinced Satan to award him the delivery of the Antichrist.

«I concede that commendationszz bring power and status, and that Crowley deserveszz neither,» they began. «But only Satan can revoke them. It iszz written.»

Beelzebub stopped and raised their eyebrows in a way that conveyed the impropriety of discussing the current power vacuum while the office’s door was still open.

«We can do that,» continued Hastur undeterred. «If he isn’t here why we should-»

Yes, Hastur wasn’t great with subtext. With a sigh, and a quick gesture, Beelzebub shut the door, hoping that the nearby demons won’t gossip too much.

«- just use the girl and you will be done.»

«What?» they asked, wondering when exactly “we” became “you”.

«She is human, she will know what Crowley fabricated or not,» explained Hastur, pointing at the phone. «No need to trouble our, er, our Dark Missing Master.»

«What a lovely name,» they said mockingly. Really, who was encouraging this creative side of Hastur? «But you are not completely wrong. After all it iszz just a bureaucratic cavil. We will szzolve it discretely, disgrace Crowley for good and forget about it.»

_Y__es,_ they thought, _i__t __was__ a nuisance, but a nuisance of little consequences. __It will be easy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry for disappearing for basically two months, but:  
1\. I planned this story to have around 20 (or less, like 16/17) chapters, so we are approaching to its end. This means that I actually have to plan how to wrap everything up, yay.  
2\. I wasn't exactly at my best tbh
> 
> But here we are, so I want to thank again all the people that read/bookmark/leave kudos or comments. Thank you <3 !


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